


precious wonders, numberless

by perpetuallyangryinsomniac



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bilingual Lance (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Childhood Friends, Cliche, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Keith (Voltron), Idiots in Love, Keith (Voltron) Speaks Spanish, Lance knows what's up, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pining Keith (Voltron), Soulmate-Identifying Marks, The Road to El Dorado (2000) References, although honestly that's not the focus, but mostly - Freeform, they did this the hardest way possible, veronica is sick of spelling it out for these kids, very badly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-12-18 17:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18254606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetuallyangryinsomniac/pseuds/perpetuallyangryinsomniac
Summary: In a perfect world, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have a crush on the one person the universe decided was your perfect match. Keith and Lance have fallen into a routine, though.Their dynamic is weird. Weirdly platonic, that is- for horny teenage boys, at least- but what can you expect from soulmates who met when they were literal children?(In which Keith provides commentary on expectations, disappointment, and growing into things despite his best efforts over a decade of sitting down and talking about Lance.)





	precious wonders, numberless

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote all but the last two sections a year ago, so it might be a little janky. Enjoy! Or don't. I don't own you.

_How can one who knows such splendour  
Feel the answer lies elsewhere? _

_Queen of Cities_

_6_

Keith’s parents don’t deny him much, but he can’t help but be nervous asking them for stuff. He wrings his stubby fingers together as he works up the courage.

   “Daddy?”

   His dad is sunk so low on the couch that his neck pops out in a mimicry of his chin. Keith thinks it’s funny, and secretly so does Mommy, but she told him not to point it out because it might hurt his feelings. Keith looks at his eyes instead, which have flicked from the movie on the TV to his son.

   “What’s up, bud?” He pats the couch next to him. Keith accepts the invitation, smiling shyly as he pulls himself upwards. He watches his hands dance over each other until his dad starts rubbing his back; it’s like he can summon Keith’s bravery just by being there.

   He takes a breath, then spits it out. “Can I speak Spanish?”

   His dad sits up a little, and his bullfrog throat retreats back to where it’s meant to be. His eyes are wide, his smile twisted a little in confusion. Keith just blinks at him.

   “Spanish?” His dad seems unsure how to respond, so Keith decides to take pity on him.

   He nods, supplying helpfully, “Like Lance.”

   “Like Lance?”

   Keith pouts a little. Doesn’t his dad get it,  _still_? “I want to speak Spanish,” he says, slowly so his dad can understand, “But Mrs Hagen says I can’t.”

   His dad seems to ponder this. Keith feels his eyes drift upwards in the way that kind of hurts- his mom would say he’s  _rolling his eyes again_ , but Keith doesn’t think he can roll his eyes.

   “You can if you want,” he says, “But you have to learn how, first.”

   Keith perks up at that. “Can I?”

   “Well, it’s very hard to learn another language,” his dad says gently. “You’re still figuring out English right now. That’s why you’re at big school.”

   Keith rams his head into his dad’s side, just to make sure he gets his point across. He’s being very slow tonight, so his little groan might not be enough to convey his annoyance. “I already speak English good. Tell me how to speak Spanish.”

   His dad is smiling weirdly, with just one half of his face. It makes him look like Lance did at school today, just before he painted Batman on Keith’s cheek and then Catboy on the back of his own wrist. Keith had a Catboy painted on his arm too, but he couldn’t remember anyone doing it for him. Mrs Hagen had been upset at them- they weren’t meant to be in the classroom by themselves, and especially not painting each other- and made them clean it off. They were late to recess, but it didn't matter. At least they were late together.

   “So… is Lance someone at school?”

   Keith narrows his eyes. His dad has his evil voice on, the one he uses just before he says something gross. “He’s my friend.”

   “And he speaks Spanish?”

   Keith groans, long and loud. “ _Yes,_ Dad! I want to, too.”

   His dad ruffles his hair, smiling big now. Keith tries to hold down his hair with his arms- it gets all sticky-uppy when people touch it, and he looks like a crazy scientist. His mom always takes him to get his haircuts, but since she’s been on holiday Daddy has forgotten a lot. Keith thinks it’s funny, because he’s the only boy in his class who looks like a girl. The other girls like playing with it, and he lets them sometimes.

   “Lance doesn’t speak normal,” he adds, grumbling. “He only speaks Spanish, so if I want to speak to him,  _I_ have to as well.”

   His dad pulls him into the side, squeezing him hard. “I love you,” he says, his mouth happy but his eyes sad.

   Keith frowns. He doesn’t like it when he looks at him like that; he’s been doing it a lot since Mommy went on her holiday. “Dad,” he says sternly, “You’re doing the face again.”

   “Sorry, buddy,” he chuckles. “Do you really wanna try Spanish?”

   “Yes.”

   “It’s gonna be really hard.”

   “Okay.”

   “And it’ll take a long time before you can speak really well with Lance, okay?”

   “I  _know_.”

   “We could try together.”

   “Really?”

   “Yeah.”

   Keith smiles, wriggling his arms in between his dad’s back and the couch so he can hug him. “Thank you.”

   His dad gives him the gooey puppy dog eyes again. “I love you, Keith.”

   “ _Daaaaaaddy_ ,” Keith whines, long and embarrassed. He loves him too, but his dad says it  _so much_ lately. It’s a little stressful, hearing it and feeling it and returning it all the time, but when he looks at him like that Keith has to say it back.

 

_7_

“Now you say,  _¡muere, monstruo! ¡Muere en mi espada_!” Lance smiles encouragingly. Keith holds his plastic sword out in front of him, pointed at Lance’s chest.

   “Uh, mwary- mwary monstruo. Mwary en me spada!” Lance giggles, which makes Keith pout. He huffs, surprised for a moment when his fringe doesn’t come fluttering back down. Oh, right. His hair falls too short on his forehead; Lance got his mama to cut it, because Daddy was too busy at work to go to the hairdressers. She cut it way shorter than he was used to, and it looks like Lance’s now. He keeps forgetting.

   He might let it get longer again. His dad has long hair. He likes looking like his dad.

   “Close,” Lance nods, muffling his laughs behind his fist. He picked up English  _way_ faster than Keith did Spanish. He can kind of understand what Lance and his family say, as long as they don’t talk too fast, but his friend is already an expert in  _his_ language. Keith’s dad is a little better at it too, which doesn’t feel fair since he’s only learning it to help Keith.

   Lance touches his forefingers to his thumbs, holding them high beside his head, and opens his mouth wide as he speaks slowly. It’s exactly how his mama talks when she’s trying to help Keith say something properly. “It’s not mwary, it’s  _muere_.”

   “Mwary,” Keith tries.

   “ _Muere._ ”

   “Moo-wary.”

   Lance sits back on his heels, head thrown up to the sky, and laughs loudly. “No! Keith!”

   “I’m  _trying_ ,” he whines. Lance smiles with all his teeth, and grabs onto Keith’s pouting lower-lip.

   “Y’know, your face will get stuck like that if the wind changes.”

   Keith sticks his tongue out, which just makes Lance laugh more.  _Fine_ , Keith thinks,  _I’ll make you laugh._ He leaps forward and stabs his fingers into his armpits in an attempt to tickle him. It’s not as gentle as it should be, but Lance is very, very, very, very,  _very_ ticklish, so even though his fingers move more in an opening-closing, scratching and clawing motion, Lance falls to his back and laughs long and loud.

   “ _No_! No, Keith!  _¡No más!”_

   “Lance?”

   They both still at the sound of his mama’s voice. Keith retracts his finger-claws and plops back onto the ground with fists balled on his knees.

   Lance gives his friend a sad look, then yells back, “ _¿Sí, Mamá?”_

   “ _Hora de cena,”_ she calls. Keith almost misses it, but after mulling it over he recognises the Spanish word for dinner. He hums a small noise of complaint, and Lance opens his mouth to reply, but his mom adds, “ _¡Trae a Keith!”_

   Keith whispers, “Trayer?”

   “ _Trae. A_ ,” Lance corrects, tugging Keith along with him. “It means you’re coming too.”

   Keith hesitates, but Lance is strong and can pull him easily. “I have to ask my Dad.”

   “Mamá says you’re too small. You’re like…” his nose scrunches; his thinking hard face, “ _El esqueleto_ ,” he settles for. “You can have two dinners now!”

   Keith might’ve told him he should  _really_ tell his dad if he’s going to stay longer, but Lance is already shoving him into a dining chair and then his family is there and Keith finds he can’t talk. He ducks his head shyly and realises another benefit of long hair he’s missing out on- having something to hide behind.

   Mrs McClain is a short woman with curly hair and arms that love to hug. When Lance’s older sister pokes Keith curiously, she shoos her away. “Welcome, Keith.  _¿Cómo estás?”_

   Keith shrugs. “Good. Oh. Um.  _Muy bien, ¿y tú?”_

   She smiles kindly. “I’m very good. Have you ever tried empanadas?”

   He doesn’t think he has. He doesn’t know that word, but the things on the platter in the middle of the table kind of look like hot pockets. The entire family watches him expectantly, the kids already picking at the plate. The pressure is on.

   So he shrugs.

   “You don’t have to finish it if you don’t want to. I’ll make toast if you’re still hungry- I bought Nutella.”

   Lance’s brother, the short one, says something in Spanish that Keith doesn’t catch. He can’t help but think it’s about him, especially when Lance kneels on his chair, leaning across the table and yelling in more Spanish Keith can’t understand. He shrinks away from noise.

   “ _¡Oye! ¡Siéntate!”_

   The McClain kids freeze. Lance’s mama glares. Keith stares at his plate, cheeks pink because he isn’t entirely sure what’s happening but he’s pretty sure it’s about him.

   “Luis,” she glowers, “Would you like to repeat that in English for our guest?”

   He doesn’t make eye contact, staring at the wall next to his head instead. “ _No_.”

   “Pardon?”

   He deflates, the defiant air whooshing out of him in a sigh. “No, Mamá.”

   “And?”

   “Sorry, Keith.”

   Keith doesn’t really want this. Life with a big family is foreign, and if being around all these people weren’t scary enough, being the centre of their attention is more than nerve-wracking. “’S okay.”

   “Lance?”

   “Sorry, Luis.”

   And just like that, it’s over.  Lance munches on his empanada again, Mrs McClain smiles just a friendly as before. Keith has to really focus to adjust back to the happy mood.

   When Mrs McClain drops him next door, it’s already dark. She hugs him when they get to the front door, like she always does, and asks, “Were the empanadasalright?”

   Keith nods. “ _Sí. Gracias_.”

   Mrs McClain pats him on the shoulder. “Maybe you would like to come over again for dinner?”

   Keith wrings his hands. “I have to ask Daddy. He’s probably mad at me for not telling him I was staying for dinner.”

   Her eyebrows turn upwards at the centre. It makes her look funny. Funny like weird, not like Keith made a joke. She kinda looks upset, but not like she was at dinner.

   “I don’t think he is,  _chiquito_.” She rings the doorbell.

   His dad swings it wide and gathers him into a tight cuddle. Keith giggles as he’s let down.

   “Daddy, I tried empanadas!”

   His dad has tired eyes, but he’s smiling. “Wow, lucky you.” Keith sits to wrench off his shoes, and his dad says to Mrs McClain, “Thank you so much. I’m so sorry to do this to you, I just- with work, and-“

   “It’s perfectly alright,” she uses the same soft voice she does with Keith. He wonders why she uses it with them and not her own kids as he rips at the Velcro trapping his feet. “I know Lance loves having him over. He’s an angel, truly.”

   Keith wants to tell her that he’s not, Lance already decided they’re going to be ninjas, but his dad is faster. “ _You’re_ an angel. Really.  _Muy gracias._ Thank you. If there’s anything I can-“

   “No need,” she says gently. “Neighbourly cup of flour, hm?”

   He laughs, and it sounds like Darth Vader, scratchy and robotic enough to startle Keith because he isn’t sure when his Dad started laughing like that.

   He forgets how far away they are, sometimes.

_8_

Sometimes he has to remind himself that most people don’t know who their soulmate is. The kids in his class gasp when writing appears on their bodies and brag about the person who sends it the same way the man who speaks at the McClains’ church speaks about God.

   Keith was curious, so he went once. (He learned a little bit about heaven, and his dad got all weird when he brought it up that night at dinner- they eat with the McClains every Sunday.) Ever since, Lance’s mama has chased him down every week, brushed his hair, and tried to wrangle him into something presentable. Lance laughs at him, because it’s kind of Keith’s own fault for not believing him when he said how boring it is, and now they’re stuck suffering together.

   It feels like it’s always like that. Lance is there to say  _that’s stupid, Keith_ or remind him to check the package of food people offer him because he’s allergic to peanuts and could swell up and die. When Keith thinks  _soulmate_ , he thinks of his best friend, who’s always by his side.

   When the people at school think  _soulmate_ , they think of a distant, perfect match.

   Lance is neither of those things.

   “We need code names,” he says one day on the playground, nearly out of nowhere. They weren’t even playing spies, for the first time that week- Lance might’ve been going through a  _phase_ , as his mama says.

   Keith puts down the Pokémon card he’s holding up to remind Lance which one he’s pretending to be. He picked Flareon, because he likes dogs, even though Lance wanted him to pick something stronger. “Like what?”

   “Like… I don’t know. Agent names, so we can talk to each other without other people knowing.”

   Keith thinks about that. “But we already do that. No one else speaks Spanish. And we could always just write to each other.” He holds up his left arm to display the ink settled there; a game of naughts and crosses, scribbled over when they couldn’t decide a winner, and a reminder to give their permission slips for the upcoming field trip to their parents.

   Lance shakes his head. “We need  _names_ , though. Something cool, like…”

   “Batman and Robin?” Keith suggests.

   “No, not something that already exists. A new thing just for us. Anyway, we’re not Batman and Robin. We’re more like Miguel and Tulio.”

   Keith sighs. Lance doesn’t shut up about  _The Road to El Dorado_. “Fine. I’ll be Miguel, you be Tulio.”

   Lance’s eyes widen dramatically. “You’re not Miguel,  _I’m_ Miguel!”

   “But red is  _my_ favourite colour,” Keith reasons.

   “So?  _I_ have his personality. Besides, I said something that doesn’t exist.”

   Keith slumps, bottom lip sticking out just a tad. “Can’t we just be Keith and Lance?”

   “Lance and Keith. And no.”

   Their brainstorming is interrupted by a blur of limbs and blonde hair barrelling them both to the grass. The squeal as they go down.

   Oh, yeah. They’d been in the middle of a game of tip before they decided to play Pokémon. It’s not their fault they forgot; the girls they play with never go after them, so they always spend all of recess standing on the field or winding a figure eight around the twisted roots of their two favourite trees, pretending they're dodging lava instead of dirt.

   “Lance is in,” their attacker cries happily.

   Keith hates when Lance is in. He tries to chase everyone equally before tipping someone, which means Keith spends a lot of time standing on his own, waiting for his turn to be run down. When Keith is in, he just runs after Lance, which is probably why everyone refuses to tag him. Lance is a really fast runner, so Keith never catches him; if he gets in, the game is basically over for everyone else.

   “We’re both in,” he counters.

   The girl shakes her head. “No, just Lance is.”

   Lance grins, white teeth shining like little pearls- except his front one, which got knocked out because he pretended to know how to ride a bike without training wheels. “We can be in together, Lucy. We’re the dynamic duo! Lance and Keith, Keith and Lance, fighting crime one game of tip at a time.”

   Lucy just shakes her head in bewilderment. Lance has a way of talking people into submission. He’s so confusing that people just give in. It doesn’t hurt that all the girls in their class think he’s cute, either.

   “Okay,” she says, although she doesn’t look happy about it. She runs back in the direction of her friends, who scatter a little before she shouts that she’s not It anymore.

   Keith scuffs his toe in the dirt, even though it makes the dust kick up and dirty his favourite converse. They’re getting a little too tight, anyways; they hurt his feet when he runs. As much as he loves them, he might have to get new ones. Soon.

   Lance clears his throat as best he can, which sounds very forced. He quirks an eyebrow when Keith only gives him a puzzled glance.

   “You’re blushing,” he sings.

   Face very clearly red, Keith mutters, “Am not.”

   “Are too. Do you like Lucy or something?”

   Keith gasps, “ _No!_ Ew!”

   Lance grins like the Cheshire cat, too wide and somehow sneaky. “I should call you Blushy.”

   “No,” Keith cries, appalled.

   “I’ll call you  _Ruborizó_!”

   Keith pouts. “I don’t know what that means.”

   “What about  _Sonrojo_?” Lance asks. Keith shakes his head. He doesn’t like the idea of being called a name that means nothing to him.

   Lucy and her friends start to call out from across the field to hurry up and chase them. Lance waves back, hand swinging in a wide, enthusiastic arc. Keith notices his large grin with confusion. “We’re meant to chase them, remember?”

   His friend frowns, and his arm drops. “Oh. Yeah, of course I do.”

   Keith notices with warm satisfaction that Lance’s cheeks are pink now. “You’re blushing,” he crows, “ _Sonrojo_!”

   Lance pushes him, then starts walking in the direction of the girls. They scatter quickly, squealing, then recollect when they notice his slow pace. They start yelling again. Lance ignores them.

   “You can’t call me your name,” he says, scratching his cheek. “You can call me  _guapo_ , or  _bello_ , or your majesty.”

   “No,” Keith groans.

   Lance pouts. “Why not?”

   “It’s weird.”

   “Why?”

   Keith shrugs one shoulder, kicking at a clump of grass that has been freed from the earth. “I dunno. ‘Cause it is?”

   “Why?”

   His brows furrow, and he considers Lance. He looks like he’s holding in giggles, his fist pressed against his lips.  _Oh,_ Keith thinks,  _so it’s like that_.

   “Because,” he says carefully, smirking.

   Lance stops walking and turns toward him. “Why?”

   “Because,” Keith says, drawing out the vowels.

   Lance leans in. “But  _why_?”

   “Because.”

   “Why?”

   “Because.”

   “ _Why?”_

_“Because!”_

   Lucy appears beside them. They shake themselves, moving apart quickly. Keith might be blushing again, although he can’t think of a good reason why.

   Scowling, Lucy grabs Lance’s wrist and slaps his hand against her other forearm. “There,” she growls, then announces loudly, “Now  _I’m_ in.” Her friends scatter, and the oval becomes a blur of whizzing students once more.

   Keith smiles sheepishly, but Lance is howling with laughter.

 

 

_9_

He smiles dutifully at Mrs McClain, but she still brings him in for a hug. He was hoping the smile was enough of a substitute, but she’s always been a little too touchy for his liking. He lets her pat his back, though. It’s interesting that, in the absence of his own mother, Keith is perfectly okay with being babied by someone else’s.

   “Keith!” She pulls back to inspect him. “Are you hungry? How was school?”

   “I’m okay, thanks.” It’s an automatic response. Even if he wants to say yes, his mouth works faster than his brain. “Is Lance here yet?” He knows he is; Keith never shows up until he’s printed a  _yeah come over_ onto his arm.

   Mrs McClain smiles. As great as she is, she’s another one of those people who sees them and goes  _awwwww, look!_ with her eyes. Despite being the youngest, Lance is the first McClain kid to find his soulmate. They blame the oohing and ahing on that. “He’s upstairs. Come, come in.”

   She ushers him inside; Lance is waiting on the stairs, arms akimbo. Keith nearly trips over trying to kick off his sneakers without undoing the laces, then runs up after him.

   “Homework first, boys,” his mom shouts up after them. They roll their eyes at each other, because neither of them has done homework this entire year. It’s kind of a game, to see if their teacher will believe their excuses every fortnight. 

   They tuck themselves away in Lance's room, making a show of pulling their books out of their bags when his mom brings up a plate of apple slices and Oreos. She raises an eyebrow as she places two glasses on the dresser- OJ for Lance, peach for Keith. They grin and thank her innocently, then close the door after her and pounce on the snacks. Chocolate crumbs already circling him on the carpet, Lance asks, "So, Spanish or math?"

   "Math?" Lance pouts. "Math," Keith tries again, though he already knows he’ll lose. Not that he minds all that much. Lance pouts harder, blinking rapidly like one of the girls in the telenovela his mom and sister watch. Keith sighs. "Spanish."

   "Yay! Where were we up to?" He flips open to chapter two without waiting for an answer, pushing the book in Keith's direction.  _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ is well loved, dog-eared every few pages and easily convinced to lie open. Lance's dad is the only person in the house who hasn't read it. Well, and Lance, technically. His mom gave him the entire series in a tall stack a few months ago, the paper warm with age and stained where Veronica multitasked eating with reading. Keith was secretly (totally, completely, visibly) jealous of the attention the books received from Lance, and of Lance and his beautiful books. His friend suggested they read together. Somehow, that ended with Lance being too lazy and demanding Keith read aloud.

   "It'll help your Spanish," he had promised, closing his eyes and leaning back on his bed, hands tucked beneath his head.

   Keith rolled his eyes, although the gesture was lost on him. The first book lay open in his lap, so close and yet so far. "It'll help me anyway. I’m not your slave."

   "I'll read them by myself, if you want," Lance threatened. Keith fingered the corner of the delicate paper. People at school talked about the movies, but he knew- his dad taught him- that books held secrets that film studios couldn't ever capture. They were extra. They were special. He  _needed_ to read these books, and he needed to read them with Lance.

   So he gave in. Of course he did.

   They call them Spanish lessons. Technically homework. Keith's dad calls it cute, and Lance's mom calls it a waste of time. They really do practise math sometimes, too. Lance isn't very good at it, but Keith is. His friend called it a symbiotic relationship, and Lance likes the word because it sounds so fancy. (His friend is actually his dad's friend from work, but Shiro insists he’s Keith's friend, too. Lance’s, too- even without meeting him, Shiro’s an ooh-and-ah-er.)

   "Okay, go," Lance orders, snuggled beside Keith on the floor, their backs against the bed. His face is turned towards the book even though he has no intention of following along. Keith hauls the book into his lap, drawing his knees up. Lance cradles his juice. Like every afternoon, they read.

   It's slow going, because Keith is really bad at Spanish. Mrs McClain still insists the family speak English around him, so he doesn't practise very much. He never read Spanish until Harry Potter. Lance helps him with his pronunciation, blinking from his daydreams when Keith pauses too long and follows his finger to the word he's stuck on. He used to confuse spells for real words, but less so now. They stop when they hear Luis get home- he yells at Lance's mom and slams his bedroom door. He's in high school now, and upset a lot. Lance pees, and they get back to it. The apple browns, forgotten on the plate, and still they read.

   "Are you staying for dinner, Keith?"

   They look up. Lance has slipped further down so he can stare at the ceiling. "Dad's not home?" Keith asks, though he knows the answer.

   Mrs McClain leans into the doorframe, smile small. "No,  _chiquito_." All three of them glance towards Lance's alarm clock; 6:41 blinks in angry red script from the plastic astronaut's helmet. "There was a fire across town, I think. He said he'd be home for dessert."

   "There's always a fire," Keith grumbles, slapping the cover closed harder than needed. It has a little rip where it connects to the spine, and he shouldn't make that any worse. For now, it can safely be blamed on Marco.

   "I know." Lance's mom opens the door a little wider. "Did you boys get  _any_  work done tonight?"

   "Yes," they say in unison. Lance adds, "I think I'm getting better at math," just to really sell it. He gallops down the stairs, and Keith trudges after him, listening to Mrs McClain knock on Luis' door. Whatever she hears, she follows them down.

   "I hate ravioli," Veronica complains.

   "Oh well," Mrs McClain says.

   "I thought we were having nachos."

   "We can't have nachos two nights in a row," Lance sneers, taking the scraper from Keith.

   "It's called leftovers, idiot," Veronica shoots back, sipping delicately on her Sprite. 

   "Veronica, don't call your brother an idiot."

   "Nachos are gross, anyway," Marco says. "Why would you want it two days in a row?"

   "Why?" Keith asks.

   Marco frowns. "That's what I'm asking."

   "Why is it gross?" he amends.

   Marco nods. "Beans."

   Lance's dad pulls in his chair, the wood screaming against the floor. "You love beans."

   To his plate Marco says, "Not in nachos."

   Keith can't wait for his dad to get here, so they can all have ice cream. He doesn't mind dinner at the McClains' so much anymore, though. Crazy as it may be.

 

 

_10_

When Lance told Keith that Tracy Morgan asked him to be his girlfriend, he was righteously upset.

   “That’s _crazy._ She knows I’m your soulmate, right?” He didn’t mean to sound like a bratty kid, but few things in his life are undeniably his. Lance is meant to be one of them.

   Lance is sitting in his bed, eyelids heavy and hair messy. He’d stayed up  _all night_ last night, which Keith thought was pretty impressive. He could only ever make it to 6am, but Lance had managed to stay up all night  _and_ still went to school the next day. He didn’t fall asleep in class or anything. He’d promised they’d still have their nightly phone call, but he doesn’t look like he’ll make it the full half an hour.

   He scrubs at his eyes. Keith hopes he’s tired, not crying; he didn’t mean to upset  _Lance_. He might hit Tracy, though. He’d bitten her in first grade, and, actually, has no qualms about doing so again.

   His voice is almost a whisper down the line, and Keith can see how sad he is even through a quarter of an inch of glass and nine feet of darkness. “She said boys can’t be soulmates with boys.”

   “She’s dumb,” Keith growls with the authority that can only come from having experienced Tracy Morgan’s dumbness many times. Once, he watched her try to paint her tongue purple with a crayon. “Why would you want to date someone dumb?”

   “I don’t wanna date her.” His words are punctuated with a yawn. Keith feels a familiar wash of relief; he’s still never quite sure if people really do like him or if they just tolerate him. It feels especially good to hear that kind of stuff from Lance. Even if it is just him… not choosing someone else.

   “Girls are gross, you know,” Keith adds absentmindedly. “Tracy picks her nose.”

   “She doesn’t.”

   “Yeah, I saw her!” Which is true, even if it had been last year.

   “Not anymore. Her mom is friends with mine and she told her all about it. She had a full-on problem. Had to see a therapist and everything.”

   Keith isn’t sure what to say to that. His dad made him talk to a therapist a few times, after he realised his mom was dead and not just gone. They’d talked about his feelings a lot, and also leukemia.

   (Imagine you have a school in your bones with students called stem cells… red blood cells grow up to be truck drivers, and platelets are builders, and white blood cells are police officers… an evil student won’t let them create copies of themselves? A very vivid picture was painted, and Keith only half understood it.)

   The therapist, a nice young lady with eyes like an owl’s behind her glasses who let him call her Suzie, wanted him to understand why his mom died and why it’s not his fault. He hadn’t even thought about that until she brought it up. He told his dad, and he didn’t make him go anymore.

   Anyway, he’s not sure why stupid Tracy Morgan needed a therapist to stop picking her nose. ( _And probably eating it_ , he thinks to himself.) When Keith wants to do something, he just does it. So, Tracy Morgan  _wanted_ to pick (and probably eat) her boogers and is therefore gross.

   “You don’t still believe in cooties, do you?”

   Keith has a feeling Lance’s voice would sound a lot more accusatory and his face would look a lot more annoyed if he wasn’t currently trying to stay awake by slapping his own cheeks. He shakes his head, and replies just for good measure, “ _No_.”

   “Because that’s,” he yawns again, “for babies.”

   “I  _don’t_.”

   Keith watches Lance’s head drop. It smacks against the window so loud that he can hear it through the phone and in real life. His eyes snap open wide and he stumbles backwards. Keith laughs, and Lance pouts back.

   “I’m  _tired_.”

   Keith has a mobile. His dad got it for him because he walks home from school on the days Lance has baseball after school. Keith doesn’t like catching the bus alone, but walking gives him something to do other than wait in silence all alone. Lance’s mama offered to pick him up, but Keith’s dad said no- said it was  _too much_ , whatever that means. His phone is very fancy- it has a secret keyboard that slides away. He and Lance use it when they play spies, too, which is less often since they discovered their new favourite thing: Power Rangers.

   Keith can slide the keyboard out and in even when he’s on a call. He’s not sure why he does it. Maybe the same reason Lance is always playing with stuff; his mom said he has, uh, AD? DHD?

   “You should sleep,” Keith says, because he’s been quietly thinking for a long time now and he doesn’t want Lance to think  _he’s_ the one who’s fallen asleep.

   “But we’re  _talking_. And I wanted to make it through two whole nights.”

   Keith doesn’t mean for the awe to drip into his voice. “ _Two_ nights?”

   “Yup. My cousin didn’t sleep for three months once, and I think I can beat that.”

   “Maybe you could,” Keith says carefully. Lance is using the sleepy version of his exaggerating voice, but sometimes it’s hard to tell. Keith isn’t sure either way, so changing the subject is usually best.

   Luckily, Lance does it for him. “Not all girls are gross, you know.”

   Keith frowns. He doesn’t really care if girls are gross or not, but maybe Lance does, because he keeps talking about them. “I know that. Your sister’s not gross.”

   Lance snorts. “Veronica is  _the_ grossest girl. Even ask Luis and Marco.” Keith likes Veronica. She’s funny. But he doesn’t live with her, and maybe she is gross. “But Caitlyn is nice. She always passes me the ball in soccer.”

   “She never passes me the ball,” Keith grumbles. Caitlyn used to be nice. She used to put Keith’s hair in pigtails with rubber bands shaped like animals, before they realised how weird that is for a guy to have his hair like that. She plays tip with them at recess sometimes, too, but she mostly chases her friends, even when Lance and Keith wave their arms and stick out their tongues. “And she always smells like peanut butter.”

   Lance’s forehead is pressed against the window, his mouth open slightly. His hand still grips the landline tightly- he’d gotten one in his room, right on his bedside table, for his ninth birthday. His siblings sometimes pick up theirs and listen in on their conversations. Sometimes they hang up for him, before Keith has even said goodnight. That’s why they always call from six thirty ‘til seven- the McClains have dinner at six, and since Lance is the youngest, his brothers and sister can use it after.

   Keith’s okay with letting him sleep instead of talk, but doing so cross-legged, drooling on his window, probably isn’t very comfortable even if it is funny. He whispers down the line, “Lance?”

   He doesn’t respond. If anything, his mouth opens wider, giving Keith a full view of his tiny pink tongue.

   Keith nearly falls off his bed in his hurry, screwing up his sheets with his ankles. He grabs the pen on his desk- lying innocently on his diligently ignored maths homework- and scribbles on the inside of his wrist,  _wakey wakey_.

   The weird tingle is always enough to wake Lance. He jolts upwards, squints at his wrist, and then through the window at Keith. He swallows and whispers, “Goodnight.”

   Keith waves, already hanging up.

 

 

_11_

The lady behind the desk slams her phone on the receiver like it makes a point and turns back to her work. Keith huffs and trudges back to his seat. The student office is not a friendly place. Especially when you know you’re in trouble.

   The office ladies are always kind of glare-y, always more interested in whatever they were talking about before they had to censor themselves in front of kids. Keith and Lance have been there a while, too, waiting for the deputy principal, so they’re even more annoyed.

   They both have their arms crossed. Keith spends his time wondering why the chairs in the office are cushioned and have arms when the ones in the classroom are hard plastic and hurt to sit in all day. He doesn’t have much else to do, considering Lance won’t talk to him.

   And okay, sure, it had kind of been Keith’s idea. He was okay with getting in trouble- he just didn’t think they would. Ms Perali, their science teacher, always thought it was cute when they wrote each other little messages. She’d always clasp her hands together and go  _aww._ It was embarrassing, but whatever. Keith thought that even if she did see, she’d just say  _aww_ and move on. Besides, Lance isn’t very good at remembering the long science-y names. Keith was trying to  _help_.

   Apparently not. Helping each other in their first science test of the year got them in huge trouble. The school is calling their parents to talk about  _boundaries_ and  _discipline_ and  _separation issues_. Keith only half understands what that means, but he knows he doesn’t like the implications.

   Lance is glaring at the ground; Keith watches him openly. That’d always been okay before, but maybe middle school is different because Lance’s face gets more scrunched up the longer Keith stares.

   He’s pulled his sleeves down over his hands; the jacket really belongs to brother, Luis, who is in his last year of high school. He’s really tall, so the jacket is massive on Lance. Luis let him steal it because it’s old and out of fashion. Lance likes it because the grey hood is big enough to pull over his face like a ninja or an assassin.

   Keith thinks he looks more like a wizard because the hem of the jacket ends at his knees, but Lance likes assassins better.

   Anyway, it means the writing up and down his arm is covered up. Scribbles of  _what the heck is oxidation?_ and  _question six is a nucleus, right?_ Lance had drawn something that looked like a member of  _KISS_ , based on the long, snaked tongue and the lightning-bolt eyes under where Keith had written  _ ~~a~~_ _, b, b, a_. Apparently, he doesn’t know much about old music- Keith’s dad basically lives in the eighties, so Keith could share his music knowledge too, he supposes.

   The teachers won’t let them wash it off. Proof to show their parents, or something like that. Keith hopes his dad isn’t at the station today. He won’t be able to leave if he’s on shift because one of the older firemen retired and they’re understaffed at the moment. He hasn’t had an incident like this at this school yet, and he’s not looking forward to first  _oh no, you can’t call my mom, because she’s dead._ He’d had to tell them too many times in elementary school before they remembered. The first time, they didn’t even believe him until they eventually got his dad on the phone. They always gave him that look, like,  _you poor kid_. Keith learned quickly to hate that, even if he used it to his advantage when he could.

   He wants to say sorry for getting Lance in trouble, but he’s not very good at apologising. He’d just write it on his hand and let Lance read it- that way he doesn’t have to say it out loud- but Ms Perali took all their pens away, so they couldn’t have any more secret talks while they waited for the deputy.

   Not that Lance is feeling particularly talkative anyway.

   Keith watches him fold up in his chair so he’s sitting cross legged, hands still tucked tightly into his armpits. His knee jumps up and down, fast as machine gun fire. It means he’s upset, usually. It means he won’t talk to Keith. It means he’s too bored to keep paying attention.

   Keith doesn’t really cry. Not since he was littler, and he realised his mom wasn’t actually coming back. He gets angry instead.

   His mouth curls up in an ugly snarl, and he snaps his head away from Lance. Waits a moment. Lance always tries to poke at him when  _he_ turns off, too, like Lance is allowed but Keith isn’t. It’s the fastest way to get his attention.

   Like he suspected he would, Lance  _hmphs_. When Keith doesn’t respond, glaring pointedly at the opposite wall, he tries again. “This is so stupid,” he says under his breath.

   Keith keeps his face angry to hide his victory. He doesn’t really care if the school is angry at him, or his dad. Just so long as Lance isn’t. He’s his only friend, after all.

   “I know,” he agrees.

   “I mean,” Lance grumbles, “Who even cares? It’s just  _science_. We both suck anyway. And scientists all work in teams, so why can’t we? It’s not even cheating when you think about  _that_.”

   “Yeah!” He kind of thinks the teacher was only so mad because James had been so loud and annoying. He was sitting next to Lance; when he noticed him writing on his arm, he stood up, pointed, and yelled  _cheater! Miss, he’s cheating!_ He’d riled the rest of the class up, which always annoyed their teacher.

   Lance sniffs, which Keith takes as his cue to look back over. He has his hood pulled up now, and his face has mutated into something less grumpy and more… sad. Scared. Keith pulls up his hood, too, so they can match. Lance doesn’t smile, but Keith knows it makes him feel better.

   His friend continues, “Do you think they’ll really call our parents?”

   Keith nods. They said they would. Adults do lie sometimes- like his dad did about his mom and Santa Claus and the tooth fairy- but Ms Perali seemed  _really_ mad.

   Lance finally meets his gaze. His eyes are wide and shiny, too big and blue for his face. “Mama’s gonna be so mad at me. I told her we studied.”

   They did study, just for the record. They’d spent all yesterday afternoon reading over their books.

   “This is so dumb,” Keith hisses, shifting closer to him. The arms of the chairs are still in the way, but Lance is a contact kind of person. Touch makes him happy.

   Lance seems distracted. He grabs the front of both of their hoods and pulls them as low as they can, hiding their faces from the world. His is a lot bigger than Keith’s so it covers his chin when Keith’s stops at his nose. He tips his head back, neck folded, so he can hide properly too. They knock foreheads painfully because Lance is clumsy even without a blindfold, but they laugh it off.

   “Boys,” says a stern voice, snapping them out of their newfound good mood. “The deputy’s ready to speak to you.”

   Keith peeks out from under the thick red and white fabric. Ms Perali is looking between them, face more serious than it usually is when it comes to Lance and Keith, the dream team. They’d been used to being cut slack from everyone, but especially her. The whole combination of young soulmates, both boys, ESL and half-an-orphan could pretty much always be counted on to get them out of trouble in elementary school.

   Apparently middle school is different.

_12_

Keith ended up back in the principal’s office a few times. It didn’t bother him really, except that Lance typically wasn’t there with him.

   This time, Lance was sent to sick bay with tears cutting sharp lines through the dirt on his face. He won’t respond to Keith’s messages either, on his arm or his phone. Suffice to say, he’s worried on top of pissed.

   James Griffin was always an entitled dickhead with an awful haircut. Keith just wasn’t fully,  _fully_ aware of that fact until today.

   He’d always been a teacher’s pet- in a different way than he and Lance were. Where teachers shook their head fondly at their antics because they were objectively an  _adorable_ pair (according to Mrs McClain, at least, who has authority on the matter; very trustworthy) they practically melted under James’ influence. He helps them carry trays of books, and his mom is the head of the P&C.

   Which means Keith is in deep shit. James  _was_ sitting outside the deputy’s office with him, grumbling under his breath and glaring dangerously, but his mom had rushed in and started fawning over him. He had the decency to look a little embarrassed as she turned his head this way and that, blubbering and demanding he be allowed to go home early after a  _traumatic day_. She was annoying enough that they’d just been sent away. The dirty look she shot him on the way out mirrored the one he got from her son.

   Keith has the sinking feeling that, because James has already left, he won’t even get to tell his side of the story. Mrs Griffin is too whiny for anyone to want to deal with, so situations involving any of her kids are typically handled as quickly as possible.

   Not for Keith, though. Because his dad won’t answer the phone. Which means Keith has been sitting in the student office for literal  _hours_.

   He loves his dad. He does. And he knows he tries really hard. He knows it must be difficult; they have a pretty big house to keep up with, with only one income, and his job is stressful. Not to mention he’d lost his soulmate to cancer way too young. Keith has never really been the easiest kid, either; he likes exploring and getting into trouble.

   As hard as he tries to swallow it down, in the most secret part of his heart Keith sometimes wishes his dad were different. That he had a normal job with regular hours. He wouldn’t ever say it out loud, but he wishes his mom were still here, too.

   “Keith?”

   His head snaps up even as his heart falls through his stomach. Being lead down the hallway from the parents’ office to the students’ by a disgruntled-but-also-definitley-attempting-to-appear-sexy-by-twisting-her-cat-sweater-in-her-hands office lady is Takashi Shirogane, his dad’s apprentice, co-worker, and way-too-young friend. He’s picked Keith up from school a few times now, which never ceases to be embarrassing.

   James’ mom doesn’t have a job, but still- she rushed to his side when he needed it. Keith’s dad can’t even show up after hours of waiting.

   “Hi, Shiro,” Keith mumbles, watching his feet. He’s nice enough, (Keith likes him, actually; he’s pretty funny, and always lets him ride the pole down when he visits the station) but he likes to pretend they’re brothers or something. He always gives Keith life advice, like he thinks he’s allowed to or something. Annoying as it is, Keith’s gotten used to it; he  _hates_ disappointing Shiro.

   “Keith, look at me.” Shiro crouches down in front of him, ignoring the office lady behind him. Keith keeps hiding under his bangs. “Hey, c’mon. It’s alright.”

   His voice is too soft. It’s annoying. Like Keith is a baby, or something. Like he can’t handle a little fight in the school playground.

   He looks up, jaw set stubbornly. Shiro winces. Keith can only imagine how he must look; he’d punched James straight in the nose, and his face turned purple. Keith had been punched back by James and two of his friends, so his face must be way worse.

   Keith has told the story twice already and had to write it down for an incident report. He knows he’ll have to tell it again, in front of Shiro and the deputy together, but after some consideration he realises he can definitely get his faux-bro on his side. Shiro’s favourite topic of discussion is encouraging Keith’s gay tendencies and supporting him and bolstering him and shooting down the fears kids had introduced from the moment he realised Lance was his soulmate.

   He jumps into the explanation before Shiro can ask.

   “James was being a dickhead,” he says plainly. Shiro exhales a little harder than necessary through his nose; the classic message for  _language, Keith!_ “About  _Lance_ ,” he explains. His eyes flick to Shiro to measure his response. “About Lance and me.” His face falls with every word, the pain ingrained deeply. “About Lance and me being  _soulmates_ ,” he explains further when Shiro says nothing, “And both being boys.”

   “Keith, there’s something we-” Shiro starts in his patented Soothing Voice. Keith won’t give him the opportunity to weigh his options, though.

   “Lance is dating that Jenny girl." Which Keith is fine with. They’d discussed this, and it was complicated and scary, but he  _has_ to be fine with it because it makes Lance happy. “And James, he was like, ‘you don’t even like your soulmate.’ So Lance was like, ‘yes I do,’ and he was all, ‘but you’re dating a girl.’” It doesn’t really make sense to Keith, either, but Lance is so sure of himself and it makes him happy, so he can’t really complain. “So Lance told him that, yeah, he’s dating a girl, but he likes boys too.”

   Keith knows the word- bisexual- but he would rather die than say sex in front of Shiro, even if it’s part of another word. Shiro’s face is all long and sad, so Keith knows he’ll get a speech in the car on the way home about acceptance and pride.

   “So, James was being dumb, and said that Lance’s soulmate should be a girl and that he’s just pretending or something. Then he said that his parents told him boys couldn’t like boys anyway.” Keith’s shoulders sag a little, and he adds, “I think he likes Jenny.” Shiro’s fists clench around the arms of his chair. “He’s a jerk. He pushed Lance, and he hit his head!” He crosses his arms defensively, brows threaded together in anger. “So, yeah, I punched him. He deserved it.” He leaves out the part about James and his friends ganging up on him, though. That’d be embarrassing enough to explain even if the person he’s talking to weren’t also his Taekwondo instructor. “He was being stupid, because  _obviously_ ,” he throws out his arm. The scribbles on his forearm are covered by his hoodie, but it gets his point across, “ _Obviously_ , he’s  _wrong_.”

   Shiro opens his mouth to respond, but Keith is tired of explaining himself. “Look, if Dad’s not coming can we just get this over with? I wanna go home. I wanna check on Lance, and I wanna sleep.”

   It’s the first time he looks Shiro in the eye, and all of a sudden he can’t stop himself from staring, because all of a sudden Shiro is crying.  _That’s_ something he’s never seen before.

   He freezes. “Um…”

   “Keith, we need to talk about something,” Shiro says, voice cracking halfway through. He wipes the tear streaming down his cheek away. Keith feels cold dread wash over him, and he clamps down on his creativity. He’s got a great imagination and it definitely won’t help the anxiety rushing through his veins.

   “I want to talk to Lance,” he says slowly.

   Shiro nods. “I know. Mrs McClain took him home and explained the situation. He’s waiting for you.” Keith glances down at his sleeve-covered wrist, pictures the unanswered questions inked below the fabric.

   “I don’t wanna know.” He stands up, even though his legs are feeling shaky.

   “Keith-”

   “No.” He wants to back away, but Shiro’s in front of the door and he’s a lot faster, so he just heads for the potted plant in the corner of the room, like he can cower behind it until everyone leaves him alone. “I’ll walk home. It’s fine. If I’m not in trouble, I’m just gonna go. I’m fine. I’ll see you back at home.”

   He can see the deputy watching him from the doorway to his office, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. The office ladies have retreated to their cubicles.

   “Hey,” Shiro starts, and his voice is way too soft,  _way too soft_. It’s the voice his dad uses when he says  _I love you_ when he’s missing his wife. “It’s going to be okay, Keith.”

   “It already is,” Keith shoots back, voice sharp. He’s starting to feel like everyone’s trying to cage him in. His hands are shaking, so he glues them to the inside of his pockets.

   “I’m really sorry, Keith,” Shiro says, eyes filling up again.

   “No,” Keith growls, somehow frozen despite the fire coursing through his body. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

   “We should sit,” Shiro pleads. “Keith,  _please_.”

   Keith has a great imagination, and he’s not stupid. He’s dealt with pain before, too. He can feel that this time is different, that Shiro isn’t picking him up to be helpful so much as out of necessity.

   “Go away.” He glares, but Shiro’s not deterred.

   His eyes are big, glistening, and his arms are outstretched. Keith isn’t sure if he’s looking to hug him or hold him still, but he’s not interested in either option. “There was a fire,” Shiro whispers, too much pity in his voice and face and posture.

   “He’s a  _fire fighter_ ,” Keith snaps. “There’s  _always_ fires. That’s his  _job_. That’s  _your_ job.”

   “It was an apartment complex. The whole thing was up in flames. Electrical fire, we think. There was a baby,” Shiro chokes. It sounds almost like a sob. “His parents just left him there, in his crib. Your dad went back in, but…”

   Keith clenches his teeth hard enough to crack them. “I don’t care.”

   “ _Keith_ ,” his face is falling apart, and Keith isn’t interesting in putting it back together or hearing any more or anything.

   “I don’t care,” he repeats, “I just wanna go home.”

   Shiro reaches for him then, murmuring condolences and apologies and it’s too much.

   “ _Don’t_ ,” Keith snaps. “Don’t touch me. I’m going home.”

   He tries to push past, and Shiro grabs him by the elbow. “Keith, you can’t-”

   “Get  _off,_ ” he snarls, trying to shove him away. Shiro is gentle, but insanely strong.

   “I’m so, so sorry Keith.”

   “ _Get off_ ,” he shouts again, animalistic. He swings a fist that Shiro brushes off easily. “ _Get off me_ , I want to  _go home_. I’m  _going home_.” He pushes weakly against Shiro’s grasp around his wrists, tugging towards the door.

   “Okay,” he’s saying, “I’m taking you home, Keith. We can go see Lance.”

   “ _No_ ,” he shouts. He doesn’t want to see Lance. He wants to see his dad.

   Shiro is scooping him, basically carrying him against his side. It’s like a squeezing hug and an attempt to get him out the door all in one, and as much as Keith wants to tear away and run off, he finds himself burying his face in Shiro’s grey t-shirt.

   He cries. It sinks in.

   “I’m sorry,” Shiro keeps saying.

   “No,” Keith keeps sobbing. “No, no, no.”

 

 

_13_

Keith doesn’t really get invited to people’s houses, but Lance does. They’ve kind of been a package deal their entire school career, and even though none of their classmates really like Keith, they tolerate his presence if it meant Lance will show up. They can’t get one without the other, or whatever.

   That was Lance’s doing. Even when Keith got angry and mean, Lance would refuse to abandon him. It’s confusing.

   Tonight, they're attending their very first girl-boy sleepover. Georgia Freeney invited them- or, invited Lance knowing Keith would be tagging along- as well as some other kids for her birthday. Lance made the list of people allowed to stay over, which means Keith has to as well.

   Maybe he could’ve just left, but he still finds it hard to say no to Lance.

   They’ve already played truth or dare. Samantha told everyone that,  _no, her hair isn’t actually naturally blonde, but_ don’t you dare  _tell_ anyone. Matias had to draw a dick on the centre of his forehead, which means his unwilling soulmate has one too, somewhere out there in the world. Georgia stuffed her mouth full of so many marshmallows that she had long ropes of pink dribble splattering all over her lap and her pillow. Lance sung the better part of The Lion King soundtrack, unprompted, before he was reigned in. That wasn’t a dare- he was just loudly distracting the group’s curious questions about what it’s like living in a group home before Keith could tear one of their throats out.

   All in all, Keith is not having fun.

   He groans out loud when the game ends and Georgia demands they play something more exciting, which gets him a few glares sent his way. Lance just chuckles and starts rattling off the names of games.

   Georgia interrupts him by holding up her palm and interjecting with a, “ _Bup, bup, bup!_ My house, my rules. I already know what we’re playing.” She pauses for effect, eyes sweeping around the room, before she throws her hands outwards dramatically and cries, “Seven minutes in heaven!”

   Keith feels his chest squeeze, because there’s no way this can end well.

   Lance is smiling, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Really?”

   Maybe the whole group is in on some joke, Keith thinks sourly, because they all nod in unison.

   Except Aydan Craft, who sniffs. “There’s too many guys, though.” It’s true that the guys outweigh the girls two-to-one. Keith refrains from retorting that maybe there’s too many girls. Shiro has been a terrible, terrible influence.

   Georgia smiles deviously, and Keith glowers as she meets his eyes. She only appears more excited. “That’s okay,” she says slowly. “We’ll figure it out.”

   “I don’t wanna kiss a dude,” Aydan whines.

   Matias jumps in, “Where?”

   Aydan is visibly flustered, throwing his hands about. “I don’t wanna kiss a dude  _anywhere_!”

   Matias shoots him a withering glare, leaning across the circle to knock him backwards roughly. “I meant  _where are we playing_ , you dumbass.”

   “Georgia’s room, lights off, door closed, seven minutes,” Dawn rattles off the rules.

   Georgia ignores him, clapping her hands together loudly. “Let’s start! Who wants to go first?”

   Everyone is quiet. Lance is stiff beside him, and Keith figures he must be having similar panicky thoughts.

   There’s two ways this could go, based on Georgia’s evil smile.

  1. Lance and Keith are shoved into a dark room, the group will pretend to not have their ears pressed to the door, ready to burst in, and everyone discusses the intricacies of anal sex or blow jobs at school for the next week.
  2. Lance is shoved into a dark room with any of the other four party-goers- although, probably not Aydan- so everyone can stare and laugh at Keith and go, “Wait, isn’t he your soulmate? Are you mad at him for doing this? How does this make you feel?”



   Shiro already forces him to see a shrink. He’s not going to discuss his feelings any more than he has to.

   “Let’s do a lottery, then,” Georgia sighs, not even attempting to hide her disappointed glances in Keith and Lance’s direction. Keith’s teeth are clenched so tightly they might turn to dust, his hands balled in fists on his thighs. Lance moves ever-so-slightly, and their knees brush. The movement’s so tiny that he can’t tell if it’s an accident, but he tries to take comfort from it anyway.

   A lottery means the likelihood of option two goes up, though. Neither sounds good, but if Lance leaves him in a room of leering kids he might punch someone.

   He’s been doing that more frequently, lately, despite his therapist’s best efforts.

   Aydan is stuffing his face with the last of the Doritos when he passes the pen and paper to Keith. He considers drawing a question mark on his thumb- a tiny  _help me_ passed in Lance’s direction by whatever magical crap ties their skin- but everyone’s watching him too closely.

   He meets Lance’s eye through the curtain of his fringe when he passes the list over. Hopes a millisecond of eye-contact can convey his anxieties.

   Lance writes his name. Georgia snatches it away, tears it into uneven strips, and tries to shake them up in her cupped palms.

   “Dawn,” she says firmly, “Pick two.”

   Dawn, her best friend, gives her a conspiratorial wink. She’s pretty dumb, emphasis on pretty. Guys like her. Straight guys, that is. Bi guys too, probably. Keith is learning a lot about himself, including the fact that he is not included in the group of people who think Dawn is pretty.

   Dawn shoves her hand a little too violently into Georgia’s, sending pieces of paper fluttering to the ground as she pulls two out. She hands them to their host, who barely glances at them before smirking at Lance.

   “Lance,” she says in a sing-song voice, “And…” She checks the name again, just for show. She makes eye-contact with everyone in the circle.

   Keith’s organs are busy rearranging themselves when she bites her lip and announces, “Kogane.”

   The eyes of the group focus on them. Lance is still as a statue, but Keith can’t find it in him to look at him. He doesn’t really know why, but he says, “That’s not my name. My name’s there.” He points to a shred of paper by her foot. She promptly scoops up all the discarded pieces, scrunching them in one hand.

   “It  _was_ your name,” she retorts.

   “What’s wrong,” Matias taunts, “Too chicken to spend seven  _delicious_ minutes with your soulmate?”

   “Fuck off,” Keith spits, eyebrows pinched low over the fire in his eyes.

   Aydan is laughing. They’re all kind of laughing at their expense. Keith’s skin feels hotter with every second that passes. He’s definitely going red- because,  _fuck his skin_ , he’s  _always_ fucking red- with embarrassment and anger.

   Then Lance’s long fingers are looped around his wrist, tugging gently, and his distress simultaneously melts away and doubles in size.

   “Keith,” he murmurs, “C’mon.”

   He stands, dragging Keith’s arm upwards. Keith shoots him an incredulous look. He just looks tired. Exhausted, actually.

   It’s enough that Keith stands up with him without even really thinking about it.

   Aydan’s mouth pops open in a little ‘o,’ Matias is trying and failing to whistle with his forefinger and thumb in his mouth, and Georgia is still smiling slyly. Keith’s cheeks positively burn as he stumbles up the stairs after his friend.

   The group follows them, half of them shell-shocked, the other half whooping with sadistic pleasure. They literally shove them into Georgia’s insanely pink-and-ruffles-y room. Someone fumbles for the light switch. Someone slams the door closed. Matias calls, “Don’t have too much fun!” They cackle as a collective. Then someone shushes them, and they start their whispering.

   “Seven minutes start now,” Georgia laughs through the door.

   Lance’s fingers drop from his wrist. Keith feels frozen in the darkness, entirely unsure what he’s supposed to do.

   “Sorry,” Lance mumbles, low enough that the eavesdroppers can’t hear. “I knew they weren’t gonna shut up, so.”

   Keith’s eyes adjust quickly. Lance looks small, standing in the centre of the room.

   “Let’s sit,” he offers, suddenly touching him again to pull him over. Keith’s pulse races, eyes zeroed in on the bed, but Lance dodges it and drops to the floor so they can lean against the wall facing the door.

   Keith feels like he should say something, but he isn’t sure what Lance is expecting.

   It’s true, they’re soulmates. It’s also true that Lance hasn’t dated anyone since Jenny Chabon in sixth grade, and Keith hasn’t dated anyone, well, ever.

   It’s also true that they haven’t done anything before. Like, any _thing_.

   Keith’s not going to say he’s imagined it, but if he has, it certainly didn’t go like this. Shoved into some girl’s room on a sleepover with an audience waiting just outside the door.

   Jesus, they haven’t even  _kissed_. They’re not even  _dating_. They’ve just been  _best friends_ their entire lives, and that was always fine.

   “Keith,” Lance laughs breathily, “Calm down. You’re thinking out loud again.”

   Keith blushes harder, thankful for the cover of darkness. It’s something Lance says when he can guess what Keith’s panicking about without him saying it. It’s a super power of some kind. He isn’t sure where it came from.

   Lance tips his head back, and it makes a solid  _thwack_ against the wall. “Hmm,” he says.

   Keith isn’t entirely sure how to interpret that. It’s been a rough two minutes, so he’s a little fried.

   Plus, for maybe the first time ever, he’s feeling Lance beside him. Like, actually  _feeling_ him sitting  _right there_.

   Which is weird, because Lance touches him all the time. He’s kind of the only one who’s allowed to; even Shiro keeps his distance, mostly.

   But he’s  _right there_.

   And Keith has never cared before.

   But maybe he does now.

   Except Lance apparently doesn’t.

   He mumbles in Spanish, “Do you think they're listening?"

   Keith shrugs, then realises he probably can’t see him considering the lights are off and his eyes are closed. Their shoulders are touching though, and if Keith’s is burning and stinging and prickling and frozen at the contact, surely Lance feels  _something_. “Probably,” he replies in English. He's still better at understanding it than speaking it, and Lance never seems to mind the mixed dialogues.

   Lance peeks one eye open, and Keith’s gaze flits away skittishly. “They're gross."

   Keith hums. “What’d’ya mean?”

   “Everyone expects something from us." He stretches his legs out. They’re getting longer. Like, insanely longer. When did Keith even realise that? “Even my parents. They never shut up about it. They should give us a break, you know? Let us decide about, you know. Things.”

   Okay, so they’d come to  _way_ different conclusions in the last thirty seconds. Shit.

   Keith doesn’t really cry. He gets angry instead. Defensive.

   He kind of  _wants_ to cry, a little bit. He’s not even entirely sure why. But he doesn’t do that. After his dad died, after a week of nothing but sobbing and shutting down and refusing to eat, he gave it all up. Being sad sucks. It’s a waste of time. At least anger motivates action.

   So instead, he snaps his mouth closed and crosses his arms. If he leans into Lance for comfort at the same time he avoids his gaze, well, who’s to say he doesn’t have the right?

   Few things in his life are undeniably his and according to the universe and fate and destiny or maybe science, although Keith hasn’t really looked into the intricacies of soulmate bonds, Lance is meant to be one of them.

   “Kogane?”

   Here’s the other thing, though. Despite the fact that he only had his earth-shaking revelation (oh god, does he  _like Lance_? Like, for real?) approximately two minutes ago, he’s  _always_ been wrapped around his little finger. What six-year-old learns Spanish for a boy they just met that day? He’s always followed Lance around like a lost puppy. He’s always done whatever he’s wanted, no questions asked. When they were next door neighbours he practically lived at his house most days, and now that they’re not he  _literally_ lives at his house the five nights a week he isn’t legally obligated to spend in the home.

   And Lance’s voice sounds so much softer than Georgia’s. So much sweeter. How does he manage to pour love and care and worry into one word? A word that doesn’t even define him anymore, because his whole family is  _gone_?

   Except Lance, that is.

   Oh, god damn shit, this was  _not_ supposed to happen-

   “Keith?  _Rojo_ , you in there?” Lance knocks his head gently. Keith takes a break from his inner turmoil to meet the eyes of his friend. Slash soulmate. Slash crush?  _Fucking crap-_

   “I’m here,” he sighs.

   Lance smiles softly, then wraps his arm around his shoulders and pulls him in closer. His body is warm (and Keith is on fire- seriously, who  _blushes_ this much? It’s getting embarrassing) as he holds him, and Keith tries to focus on leeching up his warmth and his strength instead of projecting his cold and his weakness the other way.

   “I bet you'd punch those idiots through a wall if I let ya, huh? _”_ Keith’s hands have wound around Lance’s waist by now, so the best he can do is jostle him side to side for that.

   “ _Vete a la mierda,_ Lance,” he grumbles, smiling just a little. He can feel Lance’s laugh as a rumble beneath him.

   The door swings open, the sudden burst of light and sound sending the two boys scattering. They wrench away from each other; Matias, first to spill through the door, shouts, “What happened? What’d you do?”

   Georgia grins like a cat behind him. “Time’s up, guys. Hope we didn’t interrupt anything.” Keith nearly spits at her, but Lance is faster.

   “Nah, it was chill. Just hangin’, y’know.”

   Then he licks his lips, slow and deliberate.

   It’s confusing for the entire room for very different reasons. Keith’s mouth pops open, and the rest of the group starts to pipe up.

   “What the hell?” Dawn actually shouts, burying her head in her hands.

   “Did you guys lick either? What does that even  _mean_?” Aydan occupies himself with mimicking Lance’s tongue movement. Keith busies himself with groaning, dying of embarrassment and probably overheating he’s so flushed.

   Matias frowns, lifts an eyebrow. “You were, like, cuddling. On the floor, and stuff. I  _saw_ you!”

   Lance shakes his head. “Nope. Don’t remember. Didn’t happen,  _chato_.”

   “I don’t know what that means,” Matias pouts, scandalised. Keith finds himself grinning for the first time that night.

   Based on his smirk, that was exactly Lance’s plan.

 

 

_14_

“I hate the sun,” Keith grumbles, not for the first time this trip.

   Lance looks appalled. “Careful,” he says, finger waggling warningly in front of Keith’s nose, “That’s  _my wife_ you’re talking about.”

   Keith considers tossing a handful of sand at him for the terrible joke, but he doesn’t want to start a battle. Lance will undoubtedly retaliate, and both of them have long enough hair that washing the sand out of it every day is difficult enough as it is.

   Instead, he closes his eyes and knocks his sunglasses back down over his face, grimacing where they touch the raw pink skin of his nose. “Your wife is a bitch.”

   Lance smacks him in the side, and both of them start crying out for different reasons.

   “We need the sun to survive,  _idiota!_ ”

   “That hurt!”

   “It’s warm and glorious and literally the only thing the world actually revolves around.”

   “You nerd, you  _slapped_ me!”

   “Don’t get me started on the  _agricultural_ -”

   There’s a very loud, very forced collection of groans from further up the beach. They both sit up and turn around at the noise. Keith blushes when he realises the entire group is looking at them. He wonders vaguely if they can see it under his atrocious sunburn.

   Veronica shouts, “Both of you shut up!”

   Lance’s cousin, Mariana, nods forcefully. “You guys’d be cute if you weren’t so insufferable.”

   Lance whines at that, though his stupid perfect face stays the exact same shade of god damn perfect tan. “Shut it!”

   “No, you,” Veronica retorts, flipping onto her stomach so she isn’t looking at them anymore. She groans again when Lance starts to respond, and half-screams into her towel, “Go talk somewhere else! Some of us are trying to relax!”

   There’s an overwhelming amount of agreement from the rest of Lance’s siblings and cousins- which means a whopping fifteen people are practically begging them to fuck off.

   “Rude,” Lance says under his breath. Keith silently echoes the sentiment. They’re leaving in little over two days, and in his secret heart of hearts, he wants to spend as much time with the extended McClain family as possible. There’s something magical about Varadero that makes him actually want to be surrounded by people. When he said as much to Lance, he said it’s because his entire family works in the tourist business. They’re  _meant_ to be good at being nice to strangers. On the other hand, they mostly just bully each other. It took almost the entire ten-day holiday, but Keith came to be included in the circle of near-constant teasing.

   He slaps Lance’s hand away when he offers it. Lance, apparently, has no clue what sun burn even is. He’s a little rough with his tugging and rough housing, despite Keith’s pained cries of protest. Keith’s poor abused skin can’t handle any more of it, so he stands on his own. Veronica actually claps when they start walking away. Lance flips her off, already bounding through the shallow waves.

   “You’re splashing me,” Keith points out. He’s okay with the cool water rushing over the top of his feet, but the droplets Lance sends his way sting painfully as they evaporate.

   “Swim with me,” Lance counters.

   Keith snorts. Getting in the ocean with Lance McClain is the biggest no-no in the universe. He likes to wrestle.

   As someone who is doused in horrible pain both due to skin-to-skin contact as well as proximity to his now well-established crush, Keith is very against wrestling.

   God, Keith can’t seem to think about anything  _but_ wrestling with Lance, these days.

   “You swim. I’ll stand here, very far away from your stupid grabby hands.”

   Lance pouts, and it’s almost enough to make Keith give in. He’s more than content to simply observe, however, so he crosses his arms to enforce his statement. And maybe he winces when he does, because jeez are his arms sore, but he’s not going to point it out.

   Lance turns around to argue, then stops suddenly, looking at him with wide eyes. Keith shifts under his gaze, feeling awkward under the blatant staring. Then Lance laughs, and he huffs, “What?”

   He points, still cackling, slapping his knee like a fricking clown or something. Keith glances down, and his mouth pops open at the sight of his stomach. A huge white hand print marks the spot Lance hit him earlier, a stark contrast to the tomato-red surrounding it.

   “Oh my god,” he yells.

   “Oh my god,” Lance chokes through his laughter, falling onto his ass in the water.

   Keith glares accusingly. “Look how hard you hit me!”

   Karma must be on his side, because a wave rushes past Lance’s shoulders, knocking him forward in the shallow water. He comes up spluttering, still giggling when he isn’t busy drowning, and springs to his feet to avoid a second tumble.

   “Serves you right.” Keith sniffs indignantly, snatching Lance’s aviators where they’re sinking into the sand between his feet.

   “I  _branded_ you.” He grins proudly, hands on his hips.

   Keith almost points out that Lance brands him every single day with a dumb joke or a complaint about how boring school is or a terrible drawing, but he’s a little busy trying to tear his eyes away from the shiny droplets running over his bare chest. Lance is skinny- his mom never fails to point it out, to which Lance whines in embarrassment every time without fail. Keith used to be, too, but where Mrs McClain’s overzealous shovelling of food into their mouths has no effect on her own son, Keith actually puts on weight. He’s started running, he’s so scared by the speed with which he grows.

   “Shut up.” Keith’s kind of forgotten what they were talking about but shut up is usually a safe response to anything.

   It must work, because Lance keeps laughing instead of accusing him of staring or something. “Swim,” he demands.

   “No.”

   He sees the moment Lance takes a step towards him. He instantly understands and takes off down the beach with a yelp. His friend swears behind him, kicking up water as he follows. Keith is a little terrified, but he can’t help but laugh. He knows how stupid they must look; his feet slap loudly on the wet sand, and Lance’s ankles fling outwards in wide arches to manoeuvre through the waves more effectively.

   It’s when the slashing stops that he gets scared. Lance is a magician when it comes to running on sand- his feet barely sink into it. He practically flies.

   Keith sneaks a glance over his shoulder and practically  _squeals_ when he sees how close he is to being caught. He urges his legs to pump harder, to no avail. Lance leaps like a jungle cat, tackling him to the ground.

   Keith screams, both with surprise and because of the burning pain that encompasses his entire back where Lance’s chest is pressed against him.

   Lance rolls off, grinning victoriously. “Gotcha!”

   “You  _dick_ ,” he groans in response, spitting out sand. “That hurt!”

   “Sorry,” he says, although his smile says he’s not sorry at all. If he weren’t so cute, Keith might swipe that smug look right off his face.

   God, Keith’s in trouble. “I’m disowning you,” he sighs.

   “Mama will be pleased.”

   “Fuck off.”

   When Lance laughs, Keith truly believes it might all be worth it. Living, he means. His parents are gone, and the people at school are dumb or bitchy or just plain annoying, and Shiro is too god damn protective, but seeing his best friend look so happy is motivation enough to deal with it all. Even if he has to stop himself from shouting his real feelings at the top of his lungs every time he opens his mouth.

   Actually, never mind. Keith is way too shy to do anything of the sort.

   Anyway, his dream of not having sand all through his hair has been ruined. Shout out to Lance for that. He sits up, not interested in being pulled under the way his friend was. He tries not to look at him, but he knows his megawatt smile is still going strong. He knows his eyes are blue, like the ocean, with a ring of gold around his pupil. He knows his hair is probably already dry, and his skin is glowing like shined copper under the combined influence of salt water and the late afternoon sun.

   He looks at the waves instead, each one stretching further up the sand. They’re still that wonderful shade of cobalt, even though the sun has set enough that the clouds are a soft, fluffy pink. It reminds him of Lance, beyond the colour of his eyes and his board shorts and the ridiculous temporary tattoo of a dolphin slapped over both of their biceps.

   “I don’t wanna go home.” Saying it out loud, he realises how true it is. Despite the mutual vendetta between he and the sun, Christmas with the McClains in Varadero has been an intensely wonderful experience.

   When he looks at Lance, he doesn’t see the mirror of his own sad face that he expected. He’s smiling softly out over the water, fingers chasing the foam tips of the waves as they draw back and forth.

   Keith feels a little embarrassed that he doesn’t echo his sentiment right away. Lance surprises him when he murmurs, “Can I ask you something?”

   “Um. Yeah.”

   It’s a foreboding enough question even without the silence Lance puts him through, seemingly working up the courage. Vague enough to have Keith freaking out from the get go, and with the added suspense he might just burst into flames right then and there. On the other hand, it’s getting slightly colder as the sun sets, especially since they’re still half submerged in the lap of the ocean.

   So quietly that Keith can barely hear him over the tumble of waves and the laughter floating from further down the beach, Lance breathes, “Are you gay?”

   It’s a perfectly reasonable question, as Keith sees it. Considering it’s coming from his soulmate, it’s fair to ask. Considering he’s never dated or told Lance about anyone he’s interested in. Considering he asks him quietly, privately, as polite as a fourteen-year-old can probably bare.

   Still, his first reaction is to half stutter, half shriek, “W-what?!”

  Lance’s eyes widen, and he sits up on his knees, hands raised in surrender. It doesn’t really make him look less threatening, considering his height advantage, and Keith manages to continue freaking out despite his best efforts. “You don’t have to answer,” he rushes out, “Not if you don’t want to!”

   Keith’s jaw works up and down as it tries to form words. “I- why- just- what? Ah.”

   Nailed it.

   Lance’s hands flutter over his thighs, the wet slaps accompanying his nervous humming. “I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t want to- I just thought I should ask, y’know?”

   Keith tries to ignore the thrum of his heart, but it’s persistent. “Why?”

   “Um,” and here, Lance actually does blush. Keith thanks his lucky stars he doesn’t do it often, because he’s not sure he could survive seeing a cute, flustered Lance more than once a decade. “Because of the, uh… soulmates thing?”

   He winces. Keith continues to gape.

   “And I guess we haven’t really talked about it?” He squeezes his hands together to stop their frantic movements, and he bites his lip.

   It’s not entirely true, that they haven’t talked about it. It’s not like they’ve ignored it- every single person they know reminds them of their  _connection_ at every opportunity. When they arrived, Lance’s aunt made them write to each other as proof, and nearly cried when the ink transferred. Lance rolled his eyes out of their sockets, groaning, and Keith just hid behind his brand-spanking new bangs.

   They talk about it less, now that they’re older, but only because… what else is there to say? They’re used to it. It’s convenient, to be able to talk so easily. Saves them the phone bills, too. But Lance has dated and had crushes on lots of people. It’s just awkward to keep bringing it up-  _hey, Lance, still like Kayla? I think she’s awful, and also, I kind of like you,_ plus  _I’m your soulmate, so I get first dibs, right? No?_

   So, yeah, Keith doesn’t go out of his way to mention it.

   “I’m sorry,” Lance blurts, face stricken.

   Keith wants to tell him. It’s  _Lance_. He tells him  _everything_. (Read: a lot more than he tells anyone else, including his therapist and Shiro combined.) The words lodge in his throat, for some reason. It’s stupid. It’s so, so stupid. It would be so easy to say.  _Yeah_ , maybe, or just  _a little bit_.  _Just say it_ , he commands himself. The confession rises in his throat and sits there, unmovable.  _Why can’t I say it?_

   The silence stretches, both of them miserable. Keith tries to just  _spit it out_ , and Lance winds his fingers guiltily.

   Eventually, because Keith is still blushing furiously and spluttering wordlessly, he sighs. “Maybe we should go back.”

   It is getting darker, just barely. Keith’s heart sinks with the sun. Another day swept away from him. Another day closer to leaving, going back to the group home and their real lives away from the romantic fairy-tale planet that is Cuba. Keith thinks of the strangers who welcomed him without question, smiling fondly as he tripped over his Spanish. Of lazy days on the beach, of the mojitos Luis snuck them. Of Lance trying to tug him away from their tour guide at  _Cueva Ambrosio_ and taking so long arguing over pizza toppings that the waitress at  _Casa de Miel_ nearly stabbed them with their forks. He thinks that he doesn’t want Lance to stop bringing him places and being annoying or stupid or flat out dangerous.

   Lance is standing, waiting for him to do the same. He’s still gnawing on his bottom lip. He jumps when Keith shouts nervously:

   “I don’t know!” then, quieter, “Um. I don't know yet.”

   “Oh.” Lance blinks. Then he releases his lip from between his teeth and cracks a smile. “Okay.” He offers a hand, and despite the warning bells in his head, Keith takes it. Sure, his wrist is rubbed a little raw in the process, but what can you do?

   “Yeah,” Keith adds when he’s on his feet. He’s unsure what to say, beyond that.

   Lance rubs his arms to warm himself up, brows furrowed in thought. His eyes snap from the water to Keith’s, and he’s blown away by how the colours seem to swirl. He’s even more shocked by the stupid words that fall out of his stupid mouth next.

   “We could kiss, if you want.” He shrugs, jumping from foot to foot.

   Yep, Keith is actually going to die, his face is so hot. He buries it in his hands to hide his shame. “ _Lance!_ ”

   Maybe he realises what a stupid, stupid, stupid thing that was to say, because Lance’s face erupts with crimson too. “Uh! I just meant, um-”

   Keith groans, shaking his head.

   “Because you haven’t kissed anyone before! And we’re soulmates, so I just thought-”

   “Stop,” Keith practically sobs, embarrassment pouring out of his very skin. “Please, oh my god,  _shut up_.”

   “I’m sorry!”

   “Argh!”

   “Keith,” he whines, cheeks on fire.

   Not that he doesn’t want to kiss Lance. He very, very much would like that. That’s the problem. He can’t handle the offer because he’s wanted it for a while now but he can’t ruin everything and Lance is just pitying him and-

   “Guys!” One of these days, Keith might get used to Veronica rescuing him. “Hurry up! If I'm late for dinner because of you, I'll kill you.”

   “Uh,” says Lance.

   “Let’s just go,” Keith whimpers, face still burning.

   Lance grins weakly. “Race ya?”

   Keith narrows his eyes, ready to strangle his best friend slash crush slash soulmate slash  _whatever_ if only for the distraction. “I’m going to kill you.”

   Lance yelps and they both take off across the sand, the setting sun painting the sky with watery fire behind them.

_15_

Lance stares hazily at something invisible from behind his salted caramel milkshake. He swirls the straw a little too aggressively because he doesn’t like sucking up chunks of ice cream. “I was thinking about trying out for baseball this year.”

   Keith inspects his face for a moment- the pinched brows, lips twisted in indecision- before shaking his head. “You haven’t played since we were twelve.”

   Lance nods, not looking up. “I liked it, though.”

   “No, you didn’t,” Keith corrects, sipping the dregs from his own vanilla milkshake. Lance always teases him for being boring, but he can’t stand any of the other syrups, so while Lance experiments with flavours, he sticks to what he knows works.

   Lance leans back in the booth, turning to look at Hunk beside him. “I thought I did?”

   Hunk shrugs. “Sorry buddy. I don’t keep tabs on you like your creepy stalker boyfriend.” He doesn’t shrink under the weight of two withering glares. Hunk is wonderful, but he doesn’t really get it; he and his soulmate are grossly cute and in love. He says stupid stuff like that all the time because it comes naturally to him.

   His comment is ignored, as annoying as it is, because it’s happened often enough that both boys are used to it. That’s what happens when you meet your soulmate at six years old. Everyone makes assumptions.

   “You hated baseball. You never shut up about how boring it was to wait for your turn, or on the field or whatever.”

   “So, I  _shouldn’t_ try out for baseball?”

   Keith knows, a lot of the time, when Lance will regret a decision. He’s become a big believer in independence since entering the foster system, however, so he’d never actually tell him not to do something he wanted to. Doesn’t mean he can’t remind him of the pros and cons, though. He’s a lot better at helping Lance with his decisions than making his own.

   “Waiting your turn is boring, and you hated fielding,” he points out, “but it’s something to do. Will probably look good to have extra curriculars on your resume, if you want Shiro’s advice. You did like the running part, too. You could always try it, then quit if it sucks.”

   Lance’s leg is bouncing under the table; his knee hits Keith’s with every upstroke. He hums noncommittally in response. Hunk launches into his own struggles- something about wanting to join prom committee but kind of hating everyone on the prom committee- but as much as he loves him, Keith can’t really pay attention. When Lance zones out, Keith zeroes in. It’s how most of their conversations go; Lance can’t keep it up, Keith doesn’t care enough to, so Hunk picks up the slack. When Pidge is around, they’ll start a debate- discourse can usually coerce the others into joining back in- but her brother is leaving for his year abroad in Tokyo, so she’s dropping him off at the airport with her family.

   The good thing about Hunk is that while he doesn’t get the soulmate thing, he understands ADHD things. He’s happy to just talk at his friends if that’s what they need.

   Meanwhile, Lance jiggles. He has to put his head in his hands sometimes, like tonight, and screw his face up with the effort of switching his processor back on. Re-joining the real world is a long and painful process if he does it by himself.

   Thankfully, Keith is at his side most of the time. He’s gotten a lot better at bringing Lance back as they’ve gotten older.

   Tonight, he taps Lance’s forearm. When he meets his gaze, Keith pushes a napkin into his hand. Lance gives him a grateful smile and starts tearing it into tiny triangles, dumping the confetti in his cardboard cup.

   If that smile means Keith has to pause to recollect himself, well, Lance doesn’t have to know.

   Hunk, however, is too observant for his own good. “You guys are too cute.” His eyes are laughing, looking right at Keith with too much knowing in them. Lance bumps his shoulder this time, grumbling, but the corner of his mouth is still hitched up.

   Sure, in a perfect world, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have a crush on the one person the universe already decided was your perfect match. Keith and Lance have fallen into a routine, though.

   Their dynamic is weird. Weirdly platonic, that is- for horny teenage boys, at least- but what can you expect from soulmates who met when they were little more than toddlers?

   “This guy,” Lance huffs in Spanish.

   Keith plays along, tutting in Spanish that is still a little stiff after almost a decade, “The nerve of some people _._ ”

_“_ Disgraceful.”

   “Guys,” Hunk whines, “Don’t do this.”

   “ _Perdón?_ ”

   Lance grins. Keith grins. Hunk pouts. They’ve won.

   “You win, just- pity the monolingual, okay?”

   Lance knits his hands together and shakes them over each shoulder, doing his best to mimic a cheering crowd with his singular set of vocal cords. It's lazier than his usual celebrations, but it's been a long day. Well, in high school, every day stretches as far as it can to squeeze the maximum amount of life out of students as possible. Veronica tells them it's normal, that no one is supposed to enjoy high school. She neatly avoids mention of Lance's increased dose of meds or the fact that between the two of them, the local behavioural psychologist is probably wiping his ass with fifties. According to him, Lance and Keith are _growing into themselves_ , together and apart.

   Lance is overtaking him in ways. He hit his growth spurt first. Keith is tiny in comparison- he has to look straight up to make eye contact. Lance loves holding it over him- literally, most of the time, holding shit out of his reach. Keith’s voice is still high and squeaky, too, but Lance’s drops in and out. That at least, Keith can make fun of in return.

   He still refuses to believe that ABBA and KISS are different bands.  _Very_ different bands. Keith has a sneaking suspicion it might just be to annoy him, but he hasn’t got proof yet.

   It's comforting that, despite the increase in shirt sizes and intellectual ability, Lance is still the same person. He doesn't seem to notice that they’ve somehow become more  _and_ less co-dependent. Keith does. Mama obviously has; she worries about them, that they both know. She blames herself, Keith thinks, for letting them spend so much time together. She looked ready to burst when they announced that they’d widened their friend group on the first day of freshman year. Hunk and Pidge slotted into their lives as easily as if they'd always been there, and they quickly grew accustomed to Mrs McClain's tendency to overfeed guests.

   There's also the amazing case of Keith's Missing Self Control. He thought he decided to drop the whole crush thing. Some days he thinks he has. Maybe he hasn’t. His staring in class seems to indicate the latter. Fine. Keith is hopelessly in love with Lance.

   The self-pitying fog in Keith's brain is swept away with a swift kick to the shin, artfully delivered by Lance. He opens his mouth to complain, but snaps it shut when he notices the presence looming over their table.

   He rolls his eyes hard enough to sprain them as who but James Fucking Griffin slaps a plate of cheesy nachos on the table.

   "Can we help you?" Lance asks, the words clipped by hostility.

   James looks at each of them individually, delivering them all a personalised level of annoyance. "Using this table for much longer?"

   "Yep."

   His eyebrows press over his eyes. "You sure?"

   "Pretty sure," Keith says, glaring.

   "But it's dirty." He flicks Keith's cup, sending it spinning across the table. Being empty, it doesn't accomplish much. 

   "Wow. Really?" James scowls. "You feel better now?"

   "Shut up, Kogane."

   Lance's hands still around the napkin. "Don't tell him to shut up."

   "Don't tell me what to do," James retorts.

   Keith smacks his hand down on the table. It's louder than he meant, and the next table looks over at them. "Can you go be a dick somewhere else?"  

   James ignores him. "Lance, is this your new boyfriend?" He scoops a chip into his mouth, eyes appraising Hunk. He keeps his gaze focused on the table, lips pressed tight.

   "No. Do you-"

   "Sorry," he lies. "It's hard to keep up since there's a new one every week."

   "No there isn't," Lance says quietly.

   "Yeah, there is. You've dated like, the entire grade by now, right?" Which is blatantly untrue. Lance has only had two girlfriends that even count. Tracy does  _not_. With a gleam in his eye, James huffs, "You're pretty desperate." 

   There's a lot of meaning to those few words, but James got sick of repeating the whole sentences over the years. Everyone can read his shortcuts clearly enough.

    _You're bi because you're desperate for anyone,_ anyone _, to love you._

_You're desperate to get away from your weirdo soulmate._

_You're desperate for attention because you never get any in your huge, poor family._

Despite how often he's heard the words, their cruel simplicity and biting edge is enough For Keith to throw hands. His fists clench under the table and he silently apologises to the innocent patrons around them. Their nights are about to be ruined.

   Lance beats him to the punch, so to speak. He doesn't leap at James like Keith would've liked to do. He just raises his empty cup in a mocking cheers and goes back to ripping apart the napkin. James looks at Keith, obviously begging for a fight.

   What Lance wants he tends to get, at least from Keith. If he wants the situation done with, that's what will happen. Straining to hold back his anger, he follows Lance's lead and glowers at the table instead. James barely waits a second before puffing out his cheeks in disappointment. He snatches his nachos up with greasy fingers and stalks off. 

   “What a dick," Keith says the second he's out of earshot. (Or not quite, but Keith is innocent in his ignorance.)

   The other two hum in agreement. Hunk sighs.

   “What does he get out of it, anyway?”

   Lance snaps his fingers, eyes lit with excitement. He turns bodily in the booth to point at Keith. “Oh! It’s like that meme, y’know,” he pulls a face, lifting a hand and curling his fingers. “That pineapple hair chick?”

   Keith nods thoughtfully. “I was thinking more like-“

   His pose paints an equally nonsensical picture, but Lance laughs anyway. “You’re right, that one’s better.”

   Hunk grimaces. “I miss Pidge.”

   "You love us," Lance says confidently, smiling with his teeth.

   Hunk shakes his head. "I'm going to pee, and you guys better be done miming when I'm back." He points a stern finger at the both of them before he goes.

   “Miming, or memeing?” Lance calls. Hunk glares half-heartedly.

   “Both. And no puns!”

   Keith rests his chin on threaded hands, watching his friends shout at each other across the restaurant with a tiny smile. It’s the semi-perfect moments he loves the best, when the flash of content is unexpected but consuming. Lance matches his expression when he turns back around. _Maybe it’s a soulmate thing_ , Keith thinks. Not for the first time, he wonders if Lance can read his mind.

   Even though they're already looking at each other, Lance nudges his foot under the table. "Hey."

   "Hey?"

   "You know what?" In Spanish that strikes like lightning he says, “You’re my  _favourite_  person.”

   Keith's heart warms to a possibly dangerous degree, but he just quips, “No shit.”

   Lance crosses his feet on the seat beside Keith, leaning back in the booth. “Even though you’re a jerk,” he yawns.

   Keith hums in agreement.

 

  

_16_

His name, wrapped around the tail end of a yawn. “Keith…? What’s wrong?”

   His fingers clench his mobile tightly, his teeth grinding.“Hi, Mama.”  _Nothing’s wrong_ are the next words on his tongue, but they’re not exactly true.

   “Are you okay?” Her voice is already bordering on frantic. Probably due to the fact that Keith has called her maybe once or twice in his entire life. He’s more of a texter.

   “Yeah,” he breathes, trying to regain control of his voice. “Um. Is Lance home?”

   “He’s not with you?” He can hear her getting out of bed, and he feels the guilt come even stronger. Her voice is slightly higher when she says, “He’s not in his room.”

   He squeezes his eyes closed.  _Great. Just great._

   “He  _was_ with me, before. Um. Could you maybe call him, just to check on him? He won’t answer my messages, and I just…”

   “Of course,  _chiquito_. What happened?”

   Keith glances up and down the street, like Lance might stride out of the darkness and slap him for dobbing him in. He goes for the gentle version. “We, um. We had an argument, and ended up splitting up. We just headed out with different friends, that’s all. I’m sure he’s okay, he just doesn’t want to talk to me right now.”

   There’s a shaky sigh of relief through the phone. “Are you alright?”

   “I’m fine,” Keith says, trying his best not to sniffle. “I’m just kind of… lost? Is there any chance Papa could come get me?”

   Mama’s on the move again. Keith drums his fingers on his thigh as he waits. Her voice is quiet, away from the receiver. She calls, “ _Amor_?” Then, after a moment of silence, “Marco?”

   She has a quick conversation, presumably with Lance’s middle brother. He has midterms coming up, Keith knows, so he’s a no-go. Still, Mama asks.

   He swallows drily as she readjusts the phone. “Okay. Veronica’s coming to get you, just text her the address.”

   “Thank you.” He coughs to cover up the strain in his voice, though apparently not well enough.

   “Keith?”

   He just wants this night to be over.

   All he can manage is a soft, “Mm?”

   He might cry, otherwise. Keith  _despises_ crying.

   “Thank you. For calling and letting me know. A lot of kids your age aren’t brave enough to ask for help when they need it.”

   Brave? Funny. Keith doesn’t feel brave for running to Lance’s mom for help at the first sign of trouble. In fact, it’s the exact opposite of what Lance called him.

_“You’re a coward,” he’d sneered. Keith might’ve been hurt, but as always, it manifested as anger._

_“Well, you’re a- an idiot! You can’t pin this on me. Not this time.”_

_“Me, pin this on you?” He laughed, nothing like he usually did. It sounded ugly coming from such a lovely face, even twisted in frustration as it was. “Take a look in the mirror.”_

   No. Safe to say, Keith has never felt less brave in his entire life.

   He should hang up. Let her sleep.

   “Listen, I understand if you don’t want to give me all the details.” His heart clenches painfully, and he can barely keep himself from whimpering pathetically. “But please talk to someone. Shiro, if you like, or Veronica.  _Ella no tener pelos en la lengua.”_

   It's good advice that he won’t take. Veronica will tell it how it is, and the truth is exactly what he doesn’t want to hear. He doesn’t want to admit that the fight was half his fault, maybe more.

   Mama doesn’t want that from him. Foster parents and his therapist and Shiro and even Lance always ask for an explanation, ask to understand… she never does. It’s like she  _trusts him,_ or something. It’s weird. It’s a relief.

   “ _Gracias,_ Mama.”

   There’s a beat of silence. And then, “Come home tonight, okay? Your  _real_ home.  _Te quiero_.”

   Keith keeps his tight grip on his phone when they hang up. He punches an address out for Veronica- the random house he’s been standing in front of for almost half an hour. He’s so tired, he kind of wants to sit on the sidewalk, but he’s not sure he can bare to sink that low.

   When a car does pull up right in front of him, he jumps despite the familiar silver build. The window winds down with a slow, jerky motion- it’s a crank. The car is old as fuck. Veronica leans out the window, the corner of her mouth quirked in a way that hurts him because it’s just so Lance. “C’mon, emo. In ya get.”

   Keith doesn’t even comment on the emo thing. He just wipes his eyes with the back of his fist and smiles gratefully.

   “Sorry it’s me,” she yawns as he buckles in. “We’ve been in short supply of chauffeurs lately.” It’s true, what with Luis moved out, Marco studying, and Mama’s broken foot.

   “Thanks for getting me,” Keith chuckles. He’s kind of glad it’s Veronica. She might be his favourite McClain, right after Lance. She’s hilarious when she isn’t teasing the shit out of him. She absolutely knows about his little crush, though, which… sucks, to say the least. It’s definitely a downside.

   Like right now.

   “What did my asshole little bro do this time?”

   Keith aborts a sigh, because those kinds of dramatics is what prompted the emo-inspired name calling. “It’s okay, Nicky. Really.” It’s a nickname only he calls her. He never quite figured out why. Everyone else calls her Veronica or Ronnie or Shithead, in Lance’s case. It started when they were pretty young, so he has a feeling it might’ve been an effort to make him feel better. Maybe no-one’s ever had the heart to tell him not to call her that.

   She snorts. “Sure, sure. Wanna tell me why you were crying on some random ass street at one in the morning, then, if not because of Lance Mc-A-Hole?”

   He leans against the window, frowning. “I wasn’t crying. I don’t cry.”

   She rolls her eyes, and he catches a glimpse of her smile. “’Kay. So why did Not-Lance make you Not-Cry on some random ass street at one in the morning, then?”

   “It’s stupid.”

   She nods. “It always is. C’mon, one-time offer. Big sis Nicky, your very own therapist, one night only.”

   Keith yawns because he’s sleepy, but he plays it up as if he’s bored. “Shiro pays for me to see someone, so I’m good, thanks.”

   “How about we stop pretending I’m not gonna get it out of you eventually and skip right to the getting it out of you, hm? That way I can give my extraordinary advice, you can cry on Lance’s shoulder, and pretend not to be the biggest gay in the world.”

   “God, shut  _up_.” He pushes her lightly. Not too hard, because he doesn’t have the energy for that, and also because she’s driving. It’s not a great idea to assault someone who holds your life in their hands.

   “It’ll make you feel better,” she hums.

   “I don’t want to talk about it.”

   “Liar,” she laughs, leaning over the steering wheel. She drives much better than Lance, but she still freaks Keith out sometimes. Where Lance is too relaxed, she’s too tense. “Your  _Panic! At The Disco_ ass loves talking about your stupid love for my idiot brother.”

   Keith groans, but unfortunately this isn’t the first time he’s had to deal with this. She never really does it in front of Lance, thank god. That’d be humiliating. “Just drop me off here, please. Or drive into a tree. Whichever’s faster.”

   “ _Keithy_ ,” she sings.

   He snaps, “God,  _fine_!”

   So he tells her how Lance dragged him to yet another party. How Keith stopped after two beers, where they’d agreed they always would because, according to Lance, two creates the perfect balance of buzz and lucidity. How Lance didn’t. How Keith lost him but found a phone number scribbled haphazardly on his inner forearm. How he called it, panicked, thinking Lance must’ve been dead, and a girl picked up. Giggly, drunk. Lance in the background, telling her to hang up.

   Keith stormed upstairs at that point, ripped open doors- much to the horror of about three separate couples. He keeps the details to a minimum, more for his sake than Veronica’s; she’s  _way_ too comfortable hearing about her brother’s sex life.  _Not quite all the way_ are his exact words, and Veronica chortles,  _‘all the way?’ You’re such a virgin._

   For the record, Lance was right; she’s kinda gross.

   He chokes through a recount of their conversation. Lance’s irritation at the interruption, Keith’s hurt that Lance was hooking up with people while he was just down stairs.

_“Emma, wait!” Lance buttoned up his jeans as he spoke. “Don’t go, it’s fine! It’s fine! Keith’s leaving now, anyways.”_

_She gathered her clothes quickly under the heat of Keith’s best death-glare. “You said you’ve never met your soulmate. I’m not that kind of girl, Lance.” She ducked into the bathroom across the hall as Keith spun back to Lance, finger jabbing angrily at his chest._

_“You_ what _?!”_

_Lance groaned. “God, it’s not a big deal, okay?”_

_“Yeah, actually, it is! To me!”_

_Lance laughed at that, snatching his yellow button-up off the floor. “Sure, okay. Like you give a shit.”_

_Keith crossed his arms defensively, digging his fingernails into the skin over his ribs to keep from bursting into tears. God, he did_ not  _want to cry. “What’s that supposed to mean?”_

_Lance turned on him with narrowed eyes. “You know what I’m talking about.”_

_“I don’t, actually.”_

_His voice was practically acid. “What the fuck do you want from me, Keith? We’re not together, but I can’t do I want in my private time?”_

_Keith thrust his arm in his face, showcasing the sharpie that’d transferred. “Does this look private to you? I thought you were fucking_ dead _, Lance.” Blood pounded around his skull and he could barely think._

_Lance had the decency to look guilty, but only for a moment. Then he was back to gritting his teeth. “I can’t leave you alone for three seconds? I’m a big boy, Keith, I can handle myself.”_

_“Ha,” said Keith._

_“Fuck you,” Lance spat. “Make up your fucking mind. Do you want me around or not?”_

_Keith startled at that. “_ What _?”_

_“Do you even like me?”_

_It was such a ridiculous question, on so many levels, that Keith could hardly make sense of it. He was struck by the urge to laugh, and he nearly choked trying to swallow it down. “What the fuck are you talking about?”_

_Lance just shook his head, hands clenched into tight fists by his side. “I didn’t think so. You’re a coward.”_

   Keith’s embarrassed to find his eyes are wet at the memory. He clears his throat.

   Veronica hums thoughtfully. “That’s what he said, exactly?”

   “Yeah, I guess. Something like that.” He’s met by silence, so he presses his forehead back against the cold of the window. He’s not sure how Veronica always manages to pull such detailed stories from him. It’s almost frightening, how much dirt she must have on him.

   “Fucking kids,” she mutters, so quiet he almost misses it. “You’re both such pains in the ass.”

   “You’re only a year older than us, you know.” Technically she’s two years older than Lance, but semantics.

   “That makes it even more mind-blowing how much smarter than you I am. Do you talk to your therapist about the Lance situation?”

   Keith blushes at that, because of course he does. Stupid skin. Fire-truck red is his natural state. “Um, yeah.” It’s one thing to admit to seeing a therapist. It’s another to tell your best friend crush soulmate  _whatever’s_ sister that you’ve been pining and whining about him.

   “I’ll pray for her,” she sighs.

   “Him, actually. And screw you.” Veronica’s driving so slowly, Keith has to wonder if she’s doing it on purpose to drag the conversation out. He doesn’t even recognise where they are.

   “So, what happened?”

   Keith shrugs. “Nothing. We argued for a bit, he decided to follow his fuck buddy. His car was gone when I checked. I got pissed, then got lost. Now, here we are.”

   “So,” Veronica says slowly, in her very best shrink voice, “What do you take from all this?”

   Keith groans, slamming his head into the head rest. Maybe it’ll knock him out and he can escape Veronica’s weird need to fix everyone. The entire McClain family has that particular trait in common. “I don’t know. We suck? I’m jealous, and he doesn’t care?”

   The car pulls to a stop slowly. He turns, confused, to find his own befuddled expression etched into Veronica’s face too. Her eyebrows are drawn low, her mouth set in a deep frown.

   “I can’t tell if you’re kidding or not.” Keith shrugs, then shakes his head. Veronica slaps her forehead. “You’re so dumb. Both of you. Oblivious.”

   Keith scowls. “What the hell-”

   Veronica leans over suddenly, grabs his shoulders. “Keith, buddy. Look at me.” He does, though he’s a little startled. “Read my lips. Lance. Likes. You. Back.”

   Keith shrugs her off. “Don’t make fun of me.”

   “I’m  _not_ ,” she says shrilly. “God damn it. Kids, man.”

   Keith shoots her a glare.

   “Think about it,” she suggests, “ _Really_ think about it.”

   Keith tries. He does. It’d be great, to shed his realist goggles and be able to read into words the way Veronica does. “I don’t see it,” he sighs.

   Veronica pushes her glasses to the top of her head so she can scrub the sleep from her eyes. “Okay,” she says, knocking them back down to sit on her nose, “Okay, okay, okay. Can I tell you a secret?”

   Keith fights off another yawn. “I have a feeling you’re going to.”

   The car takes off with a lurch. Veronica can’t pop the clutch smoothly to save her life, but she doesn’t stall nearly as often as Keith and Lance. They usually sit in on each other’s driving lessons, much to Papa’s vexation. Lance is awful, and still hasn’t gotten his license. Keith is a little better, but he tries not to rub it in.

   “Look,” she starts quietly, “You and I both know that our darling baby boy can be a  _tad_ daft.” She waves her hand in a wild flurry to halt his protests. “Don’t interrupt me. I just mean that when it comes to love, he’s an idiot.”

   Keith sighs, trying to sink as low in his chair as possible. Yeah, his friendship with Veronica is… real weird.

   “He had a crush on you.” He huffs a laugh at that. “He  _did_. Still does, probably, though granted he sucks at showing it.”

   “You’re being ridiculous. It’s not like it matters, anyway.”

   She frowns, although at him or the road he isn’t sure. “You’re soulmates.”

   As dry as he can, he snarks, “Oh, really?”

   “Shut up. I’m saying that it does matter.”

   Keith doesn’t argue that again. After all, it  _does_ matter. To him, at least.

   “Where the hell are we?”

   Veronica laughs. “No changing the subject.”

   “Can we not talk about this anymore? Please?”

   “He thinks you’re asexual, you know.”

   Keith regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. “If he saw inside my brain, he wouldn’t.” He buries his face in his hands. Veronica doesn’t even try to disguise her raucous laughter.

   “Gross!”

   Keith snaps, “ _You’re_ gross! Luis caught you having skype sex just last week!”

   “Hey!” Her eyes are wide, and Keith feels satisfied seeing a blush on her cheeks too. “It’s not my fault my soulmate lives in Germany!” She splutters for a moment, and then she’s refocused. “You’re trying to distract me, you little shit. What are you going to do about Lance?”

   “Nothi-”

   “Don’t say nothing.”

   Keith’s mouth closes with a click of his teeth. Veronica tries to glare at him, but she’s a little busy watching the road.

   He swallows. “He really thinks I’m ace?” Pidge is ace, but according to Keith’s internet history- and the heart palpitations that occur whenever Lance happens to shoot him a particularly devious smile, usually before doing something stupid that gets them both in trouble- Keith is decidedly, extremely, monumentally interested in sex.

   Maybe Veronica has a point. He’s pretty gross.

   She shrugs one shoulder. “I dunno if he really thinks that. He’s probably just confused ‘cause you keep all the steamy details of your crush on him to yourself, whereas-”

   “I know all about  _his_ crushes. Like, too much. Got it.”

   Veronica smiles softly, and the car slows down a little once again. “It’ll work out, Keith. Trust me.” She shakes herself a little. It must hurt her to be genuinely helpful instead of just cruel for once. She continues in her best sat-nav voice, “We have arrived at our destination.”

   Keith glances out the window. The golden arches shine down from on high- a true beacon of sanctuary.

   Veronica taps the wheel to the beat of some unknown song. “Well, I brought you here because I assumed you needed comfort food, but I guess we’re really just feeding my sundae addiction, yet again.” She sighs sorrowfully as she pulls towards the drive-thru. “My shout.”

   “I’ll have-”

   “Caramel,” she growls. “I  _know,_ you fuckin’ weirdo. And I hate you for it.” She whacks him on the shoulder lightly, her other arm winding her window down frantically.

   Keith can’t help but grin. “I know.”    

_17_

He knows he’s drunk. Every dumb ass sentence that tumbles out of his mouth is a gamble, and half of it he’d never say sober.

   But so far, everyone’s laughing. Everyone’s having fun. And despite what he’s always thought about himself, Keith _likes_ talking to people. Making them laugh. So why stop?

   Pidge stands up from the table, opting to hop over the chair’s armrest rather than shuffle it backwards. “Do a shot with me,” she orders.

   “Okay.” He leaves his can of coke on the back table, remembering Shiro’s advice to _take it slow_ and discarding it. He follows her inside obediently. _Alcohol’s a depressant,_ Shiro had warned.  _Well, then, why am I bouncing?_ Keith thinks at him, waving his imaginary friend away.

   Pidge doesn’t look drunk, but one of the teeny plastic cups overflows onto the floor. She glares at it. “Stupid. Hold it.”

   Keith holds the second cup still by closing his fingers around her hand. “Your hands are tiny,” he informs her.

   “Your _dick_ is tiny!” Lance shouts from the dance floor, otherwise known as the living room, barely ten steps away. He abandons Matt there. “I don’t know why I said that. I wouldn’t know.”

   “Mhm,” Pidge says, eye level with the cup. Keith puts his other hand on the bottom of the bottle to steady it; how does she lift something that heavy with such little hands and wrists?

   “Are you doing another shot?” Lance asks, already pulling another cup from the stack. “Me, too.”

   “And me,” Matt calls between lyrics.

   “What is this?”

   “Vodka,” Pidge says, like, _duh_.

   “The _song_ ,” Keith says, like, _duh_.

   Lance’s eyes widen and he throws his hands in the air. “As if you don’t know this song!”

   “What is it?”

   “It’s the one that’s always on the radio. It’s, y’know.” He starts up a terrible rendition of the chorus. Even drunk, Keith knows it’s bad. Even delusional with love, Keith knows it’s bad.

   “You’re a terrible singer.”

   “Nuh uh,” he says, like that's enough of an argument.

   Pidge hands them their shots one by one, Matt bounding over to accept his.

   “I can’t believe I’m drinking with my baby sister.” He smiles proudly. She narrows her eyes at him. “Count of three?”

   “On three or after three?” Lance asks, glancing worriedly around the circle.

   “On three,” Keith says at the same time Pidge says, “After.” They don’t bother to clarify further. Pidge counts them down and they drink, everyone out of sync but cheering afterwards all the same.

   “You guys are so gone,” Pidge laughs, gripping one of the chairs. Keith flicks his cup at her. She squeals and retreats.

   There's a tug at his sleeve. He looks down at it, follows the line of long brown fingers, a strong arm, a shoulder exposed and painted with glitter, the curve of a neck, all the way up to blue eyes. Lance has snow-globe eyes, always stirred, never still. “Come with me,” he says, teeth white in the dark.

   “Okay.” Keith marches after him. He hears the Holts cooing after them, but it doesn’t make him blush for once. He watches his feet intently to make sure he doesn’t trip up the stairs.

   “Where are we going?” he asks his feet.

   “Bathroom.”

   _Oh_. Is Lance going to make him watch him pee? This is probably a bad idea. It’s weird to watch people pee.

   “Okay.”

   Lance knocks a pattern on the door with both fists, then leans his ear against it. It’s mere moments before he loses his balance and leans against it. Unlatched, it swings open and takes him with it. He grabs the handle and holds on for dear life, his feet planted in the hall but the rest of his body following it inwards. He drops to the floor, cackling. Keith hunches over to laugh, too.

   “ _In_ ,” Lance insists, sliding along the ground and tucking his legs beneath him. Keith follows him. Still laughing, he analyses the Holt’s bathroom. It’s stupid fancy, which seems unfair. Five kids use the bathroom at the McClain’s house. Why do Matt and Pidge need a sink each, or a corner tub?

   “Ooh! Who do you think this belongs to?” Lance brandishes a bottle from the nearest sink, pink and frothy where he pumps it onto his hand.

   “Lance!” Keith laughs but closes the door so they won't be caught ruining the nicest bathroom he's ever seen.

   Still pumping away, Lance muses, “Definitely not Pidge’s. Matt’s face isn’t exactly clear either, though.”

   “That’s the whole point of face wash,” Keith points out. He tugs the bottle out of Lance’s hand and sets it back on the sink.

   “Can’t relate.” They both stare at the pile of foam in his palms. “Guess I’m washing my face, then.” He laughs, slathering it over his nose. There’s way too much, but he makes no move to spread it up his forehead or onto his chin. Keith watches him in the mirror, tracing his fingertips as the circle the apples of his cheeks. Keith turns the water on for him. “Warm water.” He turns the other tap, finger wiggling in and out of the stream as they wait for it to heat up.

   “There you go.”

   “Thanks.” Lance scrapes the foam off in neat lines with the side of his thumb, like he’s shaving. His hair is stuck to his temples by the water, and his forehead still glistens from dancing, but his cheeks are fresh under the face wash. Keith watches his own reflection’s brows pull together.

   “I have to tell you something,” he realises aloud. He's suddenly bursting with it.

   “Okay.” Lance’s eyes cut to his in the mirror, still wiping his face. Keith watches the last of the foam swirl towards the drain. His heart pounds, the only part of him in action. The rest of him freezes, fingers clenched around the denim of his jeans.

   “I’m gay.”

   Lance stops, too. He blinks at Keith’s reflection, then turns to face him properly. He grins. “Yay!”

   Before Keith can breathe his sigh of relief, Lance is tugging him into a hug. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” He whispers to keep from choking. “I was just so fucking scared.”

   And then he’s crying and laughing all at once.

   “I know,” Lance says soothingly, hooking his chin over Keith’s shoulder. “It’s okay, I know. It’s scary.”

   “I’m so sorry you had to do it alone,” Keith says, the words tumbling without restraint. “You’re so brave coming out so young and I wish you hadn’t been by yourself.”

   Lance pulls away but grabs Keith’s wrist, squeezing gently. He sits and Keith follows, meeting his eye despite the anxiety welling in his chest.

   “Don’t be stupid. I wasn’t alone. I had you, and my family, and our friends. I was fine.” His smile is wide, eyes sparkling. He squeezes Keith’s hand. “Thanks for telling me.”

   “Sorry it took so long. You were right.”

   “It’s okay. Keith,” he says sternly, “It’s not about me, it’s about you.”

   "You were right, though."

   "About what?"

   "I'm a coward."

   Lance shakes him by the arm. "No!" He looks younger than he is, upset and horrified and throwing a tantrum. "When? I shouldn't have said that! You're not! I promise."

   Keith shrugs. "Okay."

   Lance looks lost, his eyes reading something invisible on the wall over Keith's shoulders. His frown pulls tighter with realisation. "Oh, then. I'm sorry. I wasn't angry at you. I was mad at me. It's my fault. I'm sorry. I'm happy for you. Thank you for telling me. God, I"m so stupid. I shouldn't-"

   Keith slaps his hand over his mouth, his breath and lips tickling his palm. "Shut up. It's fine. I got over it. You never stop talking."

   Lance smiles with his eyes and pushes his hand away. "I know. You love it." He hums, and Lance flicks him. "Thanks for telling me," he says again.

   “Don’t tell anyone, though.” He frowns, realising that no one will be surprised by the news. They’ve been making jokes long enough. Shiro knows. So does Veronica. Everyone else will say _duh, I knew it,_ too, probably.

   “Of course not.” Impossibly, he lights up even more. “We should kiss!”

   “Wh- _what_?”

   “Trust me, it’s a lot easier if your first kiss is a friend,” he says with a great deal of authority considering his only kiss with a guy was a random at some party.

   Keith’s heart is working overtime, probably vibrating itself into a pulp, and god, he’s terrified. But Lance grins. His eyes shine. He sounds sure.

   Convinced it’s a cruel joke, Keith whispers, “Okay.” Lance leans forward on his knees, still smiling. “But I’m going to close my eyes,” Keith says quickly, “Because I’m scared.”

    _Smooth,_ he thinks, scowling internally.

   Lance doesn’t make fun of him. “Okay.”

   Keith squeezes his eyes closed so he doesn’t have to see him coming, Lance’s hand gripped tight in his own. Quicker than he prepared for, there’s a gentle press of lips against his; soft, so soft. Lance doesn’t drop his hand or touch him anywhere else, barely moves at all. And then he’s gone, and Keith exhales.

   _I had my first kiss,_ he thinks, _finally_. With Lance, who has kissed lots of people. Done more than that, though Keith never asks for details. _Lance_ , who he’s loved for so long.

   He opens his eyes.

   Lance squeezes his hand, his lips still upturned. _His lips_ , Keith thinks, trying not to stare. _I should_ -

   “Come on,” Lance says softly, lifting them both. “We’ve been up here for ages.” He helps Keith wipe away the wetness on his cheeks, both of them dragging their fingers across his face. They laugh.

   "Wait, why did we come up here anyway?"

   Lance blinks. "I forgot to pee. Oh. Give me a second."

   Keith snorts as he shoves him out the door. He leans against the wall.

   A cheer floats up the stairs. A countdown?

   Realisation dawns. "Shit." He pounds on the door. "Lance, we're missing it!"

   "What?"

   "Pee faster! We're missing the countdown!"

   The noise rises, slips into clapping. Keith groans.

   Through the door, Lance says hesitantly, "Happy New Year, Keith."

   Keith shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “Happy New Year, idiot.”

 

 

_18_

Shiro knocks his shoulder. “Congrats. I’d give you a hug, but I don’t want to embarrass you.”

  Rolling his eyes, Keith pulls him in. “Don’t be an idiot. You’re, like, ninety percent of the reason I made it this far.”

  “Give yourself a _little_ credit. But, yeah. I was pretty great, huh?” He pats Keith’s head, face smug. Keith ducks, scowling.

  Adam butts in. “Did you switch your thingy?”

  Keith fingers the tassel by his nose. “Yeah, like, straight away. I didn’t see many other people do it, though.”

  He shakes his head disappointedly. “Idiots don’t even know how to graduate properly.”

  “ _Keith Kogane!_ ” Adam jumps at the volume of the shout, but Keith just grins, searching for the source. The crowd parts for Mrs McClain and her entourage of relatives. The McClain-to-Not McClain ratio in the assembly was probably 3:1.

  She hugs him fiercely. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, Mama,” he says, quietly, stupidly proud. Veronica shoots him a thumbs up.

  Mrs McClain pulls back, holding him steady by the shoulders, and looks him right in the eye. “Your dad is so proud of you, Keith, I know it. We all are.”

  His eyes prickle, but he holds firm. “Thank you.”

  She glances around. “Have you seen my other son?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s around here some- ah. Lance?”

  Lance, encircled tightly by Shiro, calls, “Just a sec.”

  After they’ve both been passed around the entire group of siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, Mrs McClain insists they all go out to lunch. Shiro and Adam pretend that they _couldn’t intrude, please, enjoy yourselves,_ for all of three seconds before they’re sternly informed that they’re part of the family and have no option. 

  “Unless you want to go out with your friends,” she says to Keith and Lance, all innocence. They exchange a look, both fully aware she called ahead to reserve tables. It’s only so often they actually go out, so it’s a big deal when they do.

  Lance snorts. “And face the wrath of-”

  Keith cuts him off. “We’ll see them later.” He, Lance, Pidge and Hunk had already agreed on a grand feast at McDonald’s to bid high school farewell. Hunk would cry, Lance would insist on dragging some stranger over to take polaroids, and Pidge would pretend none of it was a big deal.

  Honestly? Keith would probably cry too.

  “Guys.” Speak of the devil.

  “Pidge, congrats,” Shiro says warmly, leaning into Adam.

  “Thanks. Anyway, we’re throwing our caps now.”

  “Back in a minute,” Lance tells his mom, dragging Keith behind him by the wrist. They weave through the crowd, Pidge trying her hardest to slip away. Everyone looks the same in the shapeless gowns and caps. Hunk scoops them all up into one big hug when they reach him, already sniffling.

  “We did it! Oh my god, we’re _graduating_. Finally! We’re so old!”

  They smile for a thousand more photos, and then everyone grabs the corner of their caps.

   Even though they're already looking at each other, Lance taps his shoulder. "Hey."

  "Hi."

   "You know something?"

   “Mm?”

   Next to them Pidge hisses, “You’re gonna miss it.”

   Lance’s smile spills over, his whole face glowing. “You’re my favourite person.”

   Keith grins. “I love you.”

   Lance hooks their elbows, facing the front again, and says out of the corner of his mouth, “No shit.”

   “Lance,” he laughs.

   “I love you.” He presses the back of Keith’s hand to his lips. His eyes are on fire. “Even though you’re a jerk.”

   Hand on the back of Lance's neck, Keith presses their lips together. Bruising where Lance is delicate, burning and cooling meeting in the middle.

   “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Pidge growls.

   A hundred hats take to the sky, shouts and cheers lifting above the crowd.

   Lance and Keith don’t have hands available to throw theirs, but they don’t care. They fall back down to Earth and Lance just squeezes Keith’s hand, smiling, and whispers over the noise: “About time.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Things I write into everything:  
> -group hugs  
> -peeing?
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


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